i am the shipwreck; you are the island

sunlit, sunlight.

somewhere he wakes up to white, white sky and a landscape of ice that erupts and cracks. every blink is dazzling gold. he does not know where he is or why he is there. he walks across the tundra until his feet first swell with a rush of blood and then give way to hardened black stumps, crusted with snow.

he slips, he falls, he continues.

he is thinking of you, you know. he is remembering the way that thin cotton t-shirt stretched beautifully across your chest, your tousled hair in the weak morning light as you ate bowls of cereal with minimal amounts of milk. he is not quite sure if he is walking towards or away from the warm shapes your hands formed against his rib cages during all those nights you slaughtered in his bed. he does not want to know the truth.

he does not know where you are now, months after you stopped calling and he stopped trying. you closed the door and he lost his keys. the two of you returned to the blue glow of late night sitcoms in separate apartments, separated by an ocean of city lights, smog, and indifference.

he cannot feel his cheeks now, and somewhere deep down he is aware of losing appendages, losing limbs, losing track. none of it matters. somewhere just beyond the horizon, the sunlight threatens to spill itself gloriously across the landscape. it is the color of your hair when the two of you slept in through the afternoon.

somewhere in the distance, the cries of seagulls.