Context — I wrote this over breakfast on June 22, after counting the days since I broke up with a beautiful human who I hope will forever remain as a sister.
One hundred and a dozen nights since word,
the only thing that bound us, had detached
our cobbled rafts from single course to blurred
trajectories in unknown seas, unlatched.
By fortnight four I still remained convinced,
as thunderstorms and swells each fed my fear,
I was not worthy captain, as evinced
by capsized, deathly angles vessel veered.
I know not when the hurricane subsides,
or when I first awoke to shorebirds’ sight,
I haven’t parsed which parts were real, were lies
projected by my mindless mind in flight.
Four months afloat, recovery is fair:
at peace without a rudder’s steer to “there.”