Ink charred to ash
to scatter about in the ocean
when trying to preserve a winter
where I had lost a sense of self,
and found direction into nowhere lands.
If dust still clings to photographs,
the remnants of words can swim just as well.
These waters can be a home.
There’s no line between where our bone and blood meet
or the difference between the currents and our contents.
Condense the cascade into a buoy
standing upright despite bent backs.
I’m thinking it’s enough to carry for another season
of backwards believing that two pairs of eyes both look back.
Stand upright amidst the roar of a draining hourglass.
The memories are losing your presence.
You become but a ghost.
( ❤ Mitch)