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---

1.
   I am running away to Africa.


2.
   I am setting my body adrift. lover,
   tell me one last time that I'm not seaworthy
   with this sail I patched with my own hands and watch me
   rake waves with my fingers in the other direction;
   my whole life, the tides carried me to you and now
   I am finally floating away.


3.
   you were the only shore I saw until
   I opened my eyes a little wider. I'm afraid
   of dark water and open seas but I am more afraid
   of your coastline at night, the way the things
   I thought I knew and could see clearly disappear and
   leave me battered and broken against the rocks.


4.
   it was you and your hands that
   turned the lighthouse off.


5.
   the whales say I won't be free until I sing
   every ocean song I wrote for you.
   this is the last one I'll do.

---
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:iconthis-epiphany:

Author's Comments

I'm setting sail, goodbye.
(also: the stars are telling me never to look back.)

---

it isn't good, by any means. it's not usually what I write... or at least, it doesn't feel so.
but something is different, now. something in me is different.
this new account doesn't feel like home, yet,
but there's something else, too.

we'll see.

---

Comments


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:iconb1gfan:
Sing the ocean song :) :heart:
:iconvespera:
I don't honestly feel all of it, but I love the opening, and I love the closing... perhaps it's just that there are too many words here? the concept is great.

--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
:iconthis-epiphany:
I don't feel all of it, either, but I do like a couple of parts... I just felt the need to write *something*. When I let myself sit for too long because I feel like I can't get anything out, then the writer's block just builds. Besides, I felt bad directed everyone to an empty page. ;)

--
I'm running away.
catch me if you can.
:iconvespera:
I'm sure it will be stocked in no time :)

--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
:iconamertie:
no, this is good.
it fits together, somehow.

4 is haunting.
and lovely.

:heart:

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February 2
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