In the gloom of the dawn, I stood on the edge of the island rock. The winds blew across my hair and face until I could feel: my bent spine, my rattled skin, and my chaffed lips. The waves of the sea came alike with the rocking chair of my grandmother’s promise—it flew and died in a solemn state.
It crept in my head until it choked the sanity I held. The swivel of dead dreams, beyond the ordinary flavors of nightmares, suffocated my already fragile lungs. In its slowest grace, it turned my veins into a breathless life.
As I collapsed into the sea, the once calm waves splashed with anger, I pictured your hand locked against mine—telling me I could still stay with you.
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