the youngest sailor

in another universe

we all live by the beach.

all eleven of us

in the same house

sharing the same blue sea-shell rimmed ceramic plates

with guitars leaning against our walls with textbooks peppered along the floors.

in another universe,

it’ll be late at night and we will all come home from our jobs, throw our bags on the floor, and see everyone’s shoes by the door.

i’ll come home to laughter,

the sweet, deep laughter of my friends, of a family i somehow found when i felt like i had none.

i’ll fall asleep, mid conversation with one of them.

i’ll wake up, and watch as the sunlight colors all of our faces.

in another universe,

we won’t have a dining table, no chairs, and no room for it either.

we will all eat on the living rooms coffee table

with scattered bowls of diced potatoes boiled and cooked in a loving array of warm spices

with a soupy, comforting egg curry and fried onions

with a sweet mango yogurt and warm, thin dosas.

in another universe i’ll eat, and i’ll remember what my english teacher said in class once,

that the act of choosing the people you eat with is a powerful and an intentional act of love.

in another universe, i will look through at our licked-clean plates and see religion.

in another universe i won’t write these kind of poems.

in another universe we make it farther than this.

we won’t talk about what the future will look like because we know we are each others future.

i won’t cry at the thought of how in two years and they’ll all be gone, building their beautiful lives.

in another universe we are all twenty forever - sitting crossed legged on the floor singing songs together.

in another world it’s us, and us till the end.

a sailor, in pain

i listen to your voice memos.

it hurts.

god it hurts so much.

everything hurts, and i feel the pain sticking to me like black tar, feeding off of my organs like a plague and staining my blood dark.

i cope by bleeding out poison.

i cry when i hear my father talk about his bad dreams in the voice memos.

i never want to sleep again.

i feel my insides churn when i hear him say my name again.

why do i even care so much? why do i still grieve?

i feel anger when he talks about driving.

he promised me he’d teach me how to drive.

how long is this night?

i don't need anyone, i don't need anything.

but this fire is burning bright and its starting to burn me.

its stinging me and i cant remember why.

why i entertain this mess or why i try or why you left me with a hoodie and 3 sentences.

it’s so lonely here.

and it’s feeling so heavy.

when can i put this flame out?

how long until daytime?

i don’t care how fucked everything was before he died.

i’d let him hurt me again and again if it meant he’d just come back.

i’ll always be this way. god i’ll never let him go.

goodnight dad, i love you.

writings of a half-asleep sailor at 2 am

i will never sleep.

i know there are still lighthouses shining their lights,

and maybe one of them is yours.

i will stay awake, until i see the very last ship come to shore,

because maybe you will be on one of them.

and i think i will finally make time to rest when the last fish washes up to the shore, all quiet and beat, from its long and final swim.

maybe you know it, and seen one of those fish, maybe that last fish was your lifeline.

the sandy grains called to me to their feet, and i suddenly became obsessed with oceans after you left.

i learned lots about the water when you were gone, and like a sailor, i did anything to get closer to the seas.

i learned the constellations and stitched them into the fabric of my skin so i could use the skies when i set out to find you.

i learned how to never get attached to my findings (and my lack of),

and i learned how to speak to the water itself.

i am a different girl now.

there is a salty tang that was left in my hair, one that you have never smelt.

there is a coconut perfume you will never hear me spray,

and my wrists are filled with bracelets from other sailors you will never meet.

you will never taste the seas air

or see the sun, lazily slip back down under the horizon, letting the moon take its place for a while.

you persist, despite the weather.

a constant, amidst the unpredictable winds and rains.

your picture is still up, pinned to the cabin door, and the salt air tries to blow you off during storms.

it blows and blows but you remain on the door- strong and persisting, hanging on by one singular pin.

i am the pin.