This is the letting go,
Of seashells the tide wishes to keep,
Of the thorns I have carried,
Of desires that give me lightning
But no peace.
They are everything to me,
I have concealed myself
In too many dreams.
I have relied on other people to notice
The way the world is painted
Or how the trees have given their leaves
To the autumn,
Which will make their dying beautiful.
I wanted someone else to know that the north downs sing for those who listen.
That the sycamore seeds think they can fly,
That the spaces in my own voice
Ache to be filled with yours.
I have been seeking places
I have never visited,
And arms that have never held me.
I have drawn myself an outline,
Around my warm, still breathing body,
As though the crime is imminent.
As though the last thing this will take from me
Is my life.
I have laid there waiting
Looking up to where the trees tease the sunlight,
And counted blessings like minutes in the hour,
With all the defiance I am made of,
While time raced away from me.
I am a message in a bottle,
Given to Poseidon,
At the height of his fury,
Always too near the rocks.
I am small, but I am floating,
And the words I keep are mine.
They are fables.
They are love stories,
Written to the salt of the sea
And the reach of the heart.