Poisoned by empty promises and the tears of the willow who hasn’t stopped weeping,

the water is uninhabitable, yet the sailboat is untouched. 

I worry the loneliness guts her, 

makes her so hollow the cries of her heart echo across 

the gravestones of her skeletal soul, 

but she’s not me. 

She’s not a graveyard of dusty love and salt-stained ashes and ripped T-shirts. 

She’s heavy enough to withstand the breakage,

strong enough to repair the holes that I never could,

fast enough to outrun the inevitable ruin.

Because she’s not me. 

I wonder if she’s ever seen a willow tree fold into itself the way it did 

when it’s rearview world became a reality, and I wonder 

if she’s ever heard a cry so loud the stars fled the sky and buried themselves

below the waters of that unforgiving ocean. 

If she did, I fear she wouldn’t carry me, for all I want—more than anything—is 

to rid myself of the tainted T-shirt and make my home wherever she leads me. 

Even if it’s amongst the stars that are scared of the same cries that poisoned the water.