The sand beneath your feet is not sand, but the pores on a giant’s face.
You walk on his cheeks and eyes and you reach an ear, a cove nestled beneath a bed of seasick rocks.
There is a voice humming adventure; it is the wind, beckoning you to go.
And so you go:
Over cliffs higher than the buildings you once knew,
Down paths that remind you of your dirt driveway,
Through forests in which you find a memory from a long time ago.
You were six. Karla was seven. You’d grown together, like buds on the stalk of a plant,
Ripening, blooming, and flourishing.
She chased you through a wood much like this one,
Having no sense of time or balance,
But the oblivious and child-like notion that there were people chasing her.
You come out the other side, standing in the giant’s tear.
Gasping, breathing. Alive.
The pond around your ankles shivers and you look down at your face, windswept and flushed.
You think: “All of this lives on this giant island, and yet it is still too much.”
You live on this island now.