Driftwood dreams washed up on foreign shores.
Sun bleached white.
Dismembered ghost limbs bobbing at oblivious heavens.
Would a corked bottle have been kinder?
Tossed is tossed though hope remains.
Acknowledge that part of me.
That piece I thought you cared for, and in the caring kept it alive.
Atrophied petals drifting away in the slightest breeze.
Not dandelion seeds that dream of fertile purchase, but something destined to decay.
A mere reminder of what was once beautiful.
The red bled away and left a translucent skin…a thumbprint.
But beachcombers sift for shells and I am here in the land you left behind—hollowed.
The pieces that remain, that were always only mine, bring me no joy.
I look at the voids my decay has left and I long to be whole, or to be wholly gone.
I am left with nothing but phantom itching and sun bleached, driftwood dreams, that dance at the periphery.
If you do happen across these pieces of me, these driftwood castaways, fashion them with sinew into an effigy and burn me into ash.
Then I can ascend and serve as a beacon…a cautionary tale.