4/26 2:32 A.M.
from the cavity of a vacant conch shell, I can hear it. who was here with me? oceans bellowing behind nothingness, remind me of something I have yet to know. to my ear, it calls to me. to my chest—nothing. how I yearn to fill this empty space. I want to hold my head underwater and breathe in. a sullen rush cascading through breakaway compartments of hot air. surging, violently… inhaling the sea. torrents of salt lick the wound, and the walls of my lungs cry out. my chest rises and falls—I am not breathing. since you've gone, this is not breathing. it is 2:32 in the A.M. I've stepped out of my house and onto my home in the cool, dark sand. palm trees quiet and offer me to the moonlight—I don't mind. this is the third time this week that I thought I heard you calling my name.