Island

Island

Inside,
there is an island—
a place surrounded
by a deep blue sea.

Settling,
a soft wind
comes in on the wings
of waves.

Sitting along
the water’s edge,
feet dipping in
and out
—the rise and fall
of every breath.

Speckles of sand
swirl round and round.

Schools of fish leap
from their recesses
—they, too,
longing for a cup of air
before delving beneath
the surface of sea foam.

My hands 
form a cup.

Air filling itself
in my palm
—some slipping through the
breaks in between each finger.

I bring my hands
to my face,
but it is not my 
hands caressing
my soft flesh.

It is your hands.

I come to this island
often
—especially when
nothing seems to 
make any sense.

My words are barely
adequate to write
this moment.

On this island,
i am neither lost
nor found.

I know you are here
—for I am
a carving in the 
palm of 
your hand.