Our Island

We stand here, staring out into the waves and the endless crystalline horizon and we thank all of those who ever hurt us.

The wind whips through the trees in a sharp fashion, snapping our hair against our faces and turning our cheeks red with blood and conflict and irritation and other debilitating things.

We glance at each other and smile lightly, almost too afraid to make a noise because maybe if we do the entire scene will shatter, taking with it this moment with our thank gods and our finallys. The clouds like like they were painted with flimsy sponges purchased at a gas station at an odd hour, painted haphazardly on an otherwise straight blue canvas.

The air smells like salt, and not the packaged and processed salt you'd buy in a grocery store or see in a cheap Mexican restaurant guaranteed to give you stomach issues for days to come that you're honestly not that upset to have because it gives you an excuse to stay home from your dead end job and cry over the bathroom toilet while you blow chunks.

A set of eyes meet a set of eyes. They leave after a moment, flitting to the island before them, the ocean before them. It's not because we don't want to look at each other, but there's more important things to look at now.

Before us, stands our island.