they told me i was going to be stuck

on a desert island

and all i could bring

was just one little thing.

now, i sat and i thought,

i tried my hardest to plot

the most clever “one thing”

i could possibly swing.

should i bring my mother? a notebook? some matches? a knife?

i swam around in my thoughts to try and arrive

at the one thing i’d absolutely need to survive... 

but just like that island,

i kept getting stuck

on you.

 

i thought of the way you’d look there

innocently underneath the sun

your hands floating palm-down 

as you waded waist-deep into the sparkling water

and how i would wish i had brought a camera

to photograph you smiling back at me.

we couldn’t last long, of course,

‘cause i didn’t bring a single match

and i didn’t bring a knife,

i didn’t even bring a notebook 

so we could document our island life.

 

maybe i’d bury a portrait of you i'd scratch out 

on a fallen, old palm leaf

and a hundred years from now

travelers who found it might be stuck 

in disbelief

but we were here

and we were true

and we were free 

and i had you

 

so when i was told that i’d be stranded,

and i’d be testing all my luck,

i know some logic was demanded,

but i kept getting stuck 

on you.