guide me to the saints.

or i miss the beach

out at the lighthouse, i got better. i got worse. cycles repeat.

i would sit in there for hours, remembering every saint i could think of. jude, aloysius, andrew, dymphna. it’s difficult to remember what i begged for. i know i never got it.

seasons of my life were lost (or returned) to the whispers between the sea, the sand, and the sun. each utterance was as foreign as the last.

i could not recognize all the signs then. i still don’t, but i will.

down by the water, my soul expanded in unspeakable ways.

at the blue hour, i would roam the beach for the empty souls of the sea. i always found them isolated at the edge of the shoreline.

each time i tried to reach out, my feet would drag in the sand. not due to their doubts, but because of my own. i cannot achieve full honesty with myself.

soon, soon, i will escape this desert once more.

my body will tie itself to the sand; / my soul to the lighthouse; / my lamentations to the water.