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“…for even an island isn’t an island, dear.”

you know this, right? that surrounded by water,  it grows or recedes depending on tide.

an island is always occupied.

and so this thing you’ve built

this isolation you’ve constructed

your own sweet brain, please follow

has turned on you,

folded itself into a very private note.

that thing you think you hold secret, is not

secret.

not private.

it’s on my note, too.

and hers.

and his.

we are the same poem over and over, and our

stanzas connect

and repeat.

isolation does not exist. open your note.

you are not floating. rest.

you are carried. even when you are running.

so you might as well not.

and besides which,

if you are only your illness,

only your isolation,

only your resignation to separate…

you will sink, (but not really)

because you cannot rest all that you are on that which does not exist.