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.