we pace our own shores,
and smother out distant lights
with our hands.

some people seek external communication,
but we’ve had our fill of

tending to feelings,
treading softly on unknown relationships.
this is an island surrounded by rock
with no lighthouse to warn

passersby who might
die
in pitching and rolling and crashing
waves. torrents of swirling black

that swallow the curious
and never spit them back.

i have coffee, books, and a shoebox full of mix tapes.

now i’ll hole myself up for a year, and never talk

to anyone

again.

who needs interaction when you’re content with yourself?

the concept of a stomach turning is beautiful. a soft, pink organ being forced by bodily functions to wretch at the thought of something provoked by visualization.

fluids repulsed by each other, mixing into disharmony and forcing one to feel as if they were falling through miles of atmosphere with no possessions to speak of, not even clothes.

the only thing you would have to look forward to is the final impact, but you’re still afraid. why?

as if embarrassed by the occurrence of death and your own mortality, you attempt to climb the air whipping rapidly in all directions around you. no, even that won’t help.

it has peeled the skin raw, so you try to lay flat, this time as if you could slow the process, or perhaps prevent your crash from being fatal somehow.

you’re human, you can only try, and that is as far as you will get. it’s a wasted effort, and no one will remember it. let alone you.

though they may briefly visit the humor and mystery in osmeone falling from such an altitude in the nude.

and that will sum up your life.