Sort of stranded

A literal island swallowed up by sea

wind that heaves silently, mute sand,

and me.

You ask me to tell you the thing that I’d need

but I’m sitting her cross-legged elbows on knee,

thinking damn

I don’t even know what it’d be.

 

See there’s coffee on Sunday’s with white sheets on feet.

Dogs with those human eyes, frothy brown and deep.

There’s words balanced on tightropes from my ear to yours,

friendships late night that nibble at my core.

There’s the initial lip graze from strangers you meet

there’s pregnant minds so full they generate heat.

 

But shit I’d need stovetops for stir-fry’s and knives

to chop fruit, I’d need blankets for curling, perhaps

a canvas bag for my lute. A magical genie with 3

wishes please, I’d ask for company, emotion,

and my fave pair of jeans.

There’s just so much that I seem to need,

strip it all away and what would I be?

 

I guess I’d sit lonesome with sand on my skin,

the sun my reminder of what’s always been:

My existence, my knowledge, the humans I’ve met,

the people I’ve touched, the dogs that I’ve pet.

The food that’s sparked senses, the music

that strums, the emotions I’ve nurtured,

the things already done. The smiles I’ve memorized

grooved into my brain, the shrieks of our

laughter when skies decided to spit rain.

The kid days with Cheez-It’s and innocent

veils, the past days, the good days, the best days,

every blazed trail.

 

See, I’d sit there with nothing, no tangible

goods, just my cerebrum in hand, my eyes

as they should—no more distractions

from our plastic wrapped world,

just an island surrounded,

memories,

and a girl.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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