islands in your iris,
I can see the sea in you
the crash of waves
the whites in your eyes,
singed salt, and I
I’m just fragments
to your conscience
but I can hear you,
the quiet rumble inside you
hushed by fatigue
can’t begin to lift your feet
but when you stare
it’s like I’m completely there
like you’re fully aware
Maybe I’ve just forgotten
the way it feels to be
swallowed alive, kept by
the irrelevance of the world
just to be near to you
I know the way it looks
the island, in a breath,
swallowed by the sea–
and you won’t see me anymore
tides away,
you were very much
of many things,
but mostly very much
of the sea.
The art of spilling over 