I took a holiday with her
to some small island
the kind the travel magazines call
undiscovered
though the whole place smelled like
other people’s sunscreen
and bad decisions.
we rented a room
near the water.
she wanted beaches,
hammocks,
sunsets that meant something.
i wanted
a table,
a pot of coffee,
a quiet corner to bleed words into.
so every morning
she stepped out into the island—
into its empty bars,
its wobbling streets,
its souvenir vendors
selling the same dream in different colors.
and i stayed inside,
typing like a man trying to scratch
his way out of his own skull.
around noon she’d come back,
hair full of salt,
eyes full of someone else’s stories.
she’d lean against the doorway
and start talking—
about a fisherman who swore the ocean
owed him money,
or a little boy chasing chickens
through a church courtyard,
or a stray dog who followed her
like he’d known her in another life.
and i’d sit there,
coffee going cold,
listening to her pour the island
into the room.
everything she said sounded better
than anything i’d written.
“you should’ve come,” she’d say.
“i did,” i’d answer,
tapping the keys,
pretending the words were enough.
and maybe they were.
maybe this was how i loved—
clumsily,
from the safety of a chair,
while she brought me the world
in handfuls
and I tried to make a poem about
the whole damn thing.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
