You took yourself out to this island, and surrounded yourself with the sea.
I called out to you over the wind and the waves, and you told me to come to you,
so I did.
But as I started the climb up the cliffs on the shore, I heard your voice.
Your tone was full of withdrawal and fear.
“I’m not sure this island can sustain us both,” you said as you looked away from me.
I looked around at your home, then back at you, and between the two a handful of times.
I was bewildered by this change.
You asked me to climb back down to the beach and rest awhile so that you could think,
so I did.
But I slept as close to the cliffs as I could,
hoping to hear the beat of your heart through the rock,
or the break of the leaves and dried grass beneath your feet as you walked.
I set a fire to the remains of an old ship,
believing that a fire would take my mind off of the bewilderment.
I busied myself with tasks of self pleasure,
telling myself that it would be all okay.
But I refused to plunge back into that sea.
I refused to dive down into the deep and find what could be found beneath the deepest, darkest depths.
I began to think that there was no more ascending the cliffs,
but also no more return from the way I came.
There was no other route to take, no journey to a new home.
There was only endless waiting.
A rescuers purgatory.
And there I waited for you to let me in, growing weary.
