The small Island tucked away inside the damp inlet feels approachable by foot. If I trick my eyes to blur out the sheer drop off of roaring sea foam swirling, looping between my toes at the shoreline and back to the beginning of the jagged rocks that sink beneath each curving wave as it encompasses the land from the opening of the mossy walls.
He sits in smoke on dry sand as many yards attainable to watch me with a distracted dissonance while the forest fires musk chases us from the overbearingly dry valley to the shores of the pacific ocean. I trick my knees into feeling the sinking sensation of dipping farther into the water, sweat pooling below the tattoo on the back of my neck. the dream approaches me, as if the plain site of reality was still my swelling subconscious, diving deeper, salt water devouring premonitions of final moments before I pull my head back out of the water and claw my way up the islands barnacle covered rocks. Would my sore body hold to the frigid temperatures long enough? He’d notice, in his nonchalant demeanor, slowly saunter to the shore and scold me for my idiocy, assuming I’d swim back to him eventually. In this dream I’d stay, hold my stubborn stance, gather materials for the long night and bunker below the islands only tree, starting my fire I’d turn my back to him until he eventually left. I’d let the sea cure me.