the Tulips

An updated version of this appears in self stuff, among other commentary.

awake. by a vast ocean. nobody but myself, sand between my toes. sometimes,

the sand becomes a forest, or a home, or a void. hard to know which. sometimes

it becomes a person. she says hello. i fall into her embrace, sometimes

crying. i cannot be hurt again. no pain like the one i feel every time

flashing back to pinning her down, crying and begging for her to remember me. i only recall sometimes.

other times, i worry about her, conjured from the sand many times.

i look into the eyes of the one who i missed the most, and i see my reflection. she sees an imitation of better times

and i think of those events, so joyous in their youth. about him. back then, we talked almost no times.

now, with what he has done to us, i know that i can never be rid of him. sometimes

i hear him. he says “I'm right outside”. polaroids wash up on the shore, showing times

i worry i have gone soft, and so does she, but i do not have to be impenetrable again this time.