Is it possible that this was what it took to feel peace? Unknotting my ship from a shore that I never stepped foot on but stayed moored to just in case I ever wanted to dig my toes into its hourglass sands?
Now, the anchor dries out on the deck. Now, the neon hot anger I held in my hands — convinced it was not rotting off the rivers that run through my palms or burning away the curved tributaries of my finger’s tips — has been thrown overboard, descending into an oceanic, volcanic tomb, listening to dead men tell their tales. Now the shore fades into the distance.
And all I feel is the breeze.