I write these messages for you

I write these messages for you,
hoping that you will read them – no –
devour them and understand how
high my regard is for you.

Sending them out in bottles,
hoping that you will find them soon
to realise that I now know what it is to love someone
because I have met you.

I am in a boat being rocked back by the sea
to the island that defined you and me –
moving on, but not really moving on.
Bullied back by the universe and
my lack of strength to row.

Pushed back by the dreams and
memories.
Pushed back by this everlasting
enchantment that I’m still not sure
if I put myself in, or if something else,
something greater did.

I send these bottles from the boat
because I don’t know what else do to.

I write of him, but think of you.
I write of him, but the words mean nil.
I write of him, but the feelings
are all for you.

I’m moving on, but staying still.
The wind pushing me back so strong
that every time that this boat hits the island,
a fragment falls off.

Sinking to the bottom of the shore, I see them
still, bathing in the sunshine, frozen in time
with perfection. But they will fade, they will
decay – those broken bits of wood will disintegrate.

But god damn, don’t they look great?
Shimmering and singing underneath this paradise-blue
ocean wasteland?
Not knowing the destiny that awaits.

The wind beats me back, but the bobbing bottles
bottled with all of these thoughts of you and me
fly out with unnamable speed.

Look, there they go – they are gone.
Posted with the stamp made only with hope.

I am here.
Rowing, but for no mellon boat race.
Unable to sail or swim.
Unable to leave these disintegrating, broken bits
just yet.

You took that island from me,
you stole the grounds underneath my feet and threw me like a gale
into this sea.

But I still see it, touch it,
am haunted by the nights when it was just
you and me.

Protecting me from the sun, the island’s shadow
keeps me cool. But I am unable to see around
the curve of the shores. Unable to know
if a rescue boat is stationed beyond the contour.

I send copies of
pictures and songs,
thoughts and faults,
all back to that place.

The originals sent out to you.
In bottles that never reach the beach.

Instead, floating in space.
Being viewed, it seems, by everyone else
who never set foot on that island,
never felt its unnamable grace.

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