I’ll try to go it alone.
I put The Waves back on the shelf.
I squint to flatten my perspective,
so it appears
you are still standing beside me
on a secret sandbar. We all know the truth.
1,200 miles + more than half a lifetime
separate our bodies.
You always were an island,
no matter how many bridges got built
to attempt to fasten you
to the rest of us.
I’m no island, no bridge,
no wrack line, no bluff, no cape.
Not even a spit or some patch
of tidal flats.
I’m the dinghy
that gets dragged off the beach
into cold water during emergencies.
I’m still learning not to interfere—
to leave the oars behind.