Take Me

I want to go to an island that is deep, my bare feet sinking, and green, water seeping up through the roots of the universe, spreading into a shimmering pewter sea. I want to meet you there.

Your eyes will be warmth coming to claim me from the coolness drifting over the island, all fire and somnolent smoke. You’ll take my hand and lead my through the swaths of grass, hardly making a sound, a ripple. We’ll go to a quiet place sheltered from the rain, beneath the eternal trees. We’ll sit together on the moss, our hands almost touching, raindrops wreathing our hair. Somehow, I won’t shiver. We’ll listen to the weeping sky. You won’t say anything. Your silence won’t frighten me; I know it well. I won’t speak either.

I don’t know how long it will take, but eventually I will begin to hear a rhythm in the water falling into the island, rising up from the island. I’ll close my eyes.

A heartbeat. Yours.

When I open my eyes, You’ll be gone. I won’t even see a depression in the moss. I’ll touch it; it will be cold, glittering with dew. But your heartbeat will remain.

And I’ll remember: You are in everything. I am not alone. Not ever.

Please, take me to an island that is deep. I need to remember.