Early morning on the dock, before the island wakes, before the plans of a day begin. I sit in silence, contemplating cold water swims, what is becoming of my body, what has changed in my mind. Tell me about the pills she says and I realize they were only ever a way to get here, and I made it.
Truths about a life swirl around my periphery, answers I barely knew I was looking for package themselves in a happy jumble around my ankles. I think there’s room for you here.
He writes to ask if today is the day I’m coming home. What does one answer to a question like that?
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