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Ricochet21 Oct 2019
This is my home.
The Trees and the Stars.
Though not the trees I dream of,
or the stars I've learned to love;

This is my home.
The pain and loss.
Though its been years,
That's what the stars remind me of;
But then I close my eyes,
and the beautiful palm trees
awaken my mind.
Those beautiful palm trees,
that remind me to love,
show me i'm safe,
and give me the warmth of a hug;
Those beautiful palm trees,
that i consider home,
that gave me a new family,
a kind i'd never known.

I reminisce in those days,
from the life id chose to love,
before i was torn from that hug,
to the stars i'd grown to love,
from those beautiful palm trees.
effie ebbtide Jun 2018
i have palm trees growing from my scalp,
its roots my neurons,
but they’ve withered over the winter – the coconuts fell and
i use them as bowls for soup now.
i use the disintegrated crunchy remains of a palm leaf,
a tattered fan, to masquerade the satellites where my eyes were.
the sand that cools as day turns to evening
has always been under my sore feet, from birth to childhood to
now, ashes.
if this was handwritten you wouldn’t be able to make it out,
my scribbles dipping up and down like the wake that follows a ship, a requiem for  
aquatic self, aquatic selfhood, aquatic selfhood decomposed into molecules of salt
and molecules of water, NaCl, H2O, forever, etc, being stirred
and spiraled into who i could be, and who i never will be, until at last
the seaweed overbears me and i choke.
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
The towering palm trees dance with the wind, basking in the sun. The parking lot is full, spilling over with cars and families and couples. I take off my shoes to feel the earth make room for my feet and I long to hold his hand. He is tall, like the palm trees, and sweet like coconut water. He takes off his sandals too, and smiles at me as wide as the Pacific Ocean in front of us.
Kids play, building castles out of damp sand. We walk further down the beach, finding the ideal spot to set down our brightly colored towels, splattered with pinks and blues. We remove our sandwiches from the wicker basket, anticipating the savory taste of meat and bread.
Sitting down, I look out at the sparkling sea. Turquoise, bright and incomparably deep. I crave it’s waves’ embrace as they arch back and forth, beckoning, as if to invite me inside.
As I lie down next to him, floating in the sand, I still long to hold his hand. The sun is beating down on us, but it is not uncomfortable. The heat is balanced by the breeze and the sound of the ocean, the young boys and girls voices bubbling with laughter, and the tropical birds singing in harmony. My longing for his touch has not abated; however, his closeness and the smell of sunscreen and saltwater will suffice for now.

— The End —