Cost. In stumbles of skin.
Measuring. What isn’t there. The island. The drowning. That takes forever. And only minutes. As she forget the world that has already forgotten.
Little poisons coax the sick. With promises of rescue. And worlds so different from the one we’re stuck in. Teasing the monster. With blue ink and bluer riddles. Beating the answer into submission. While these weak gods fester in the marrow on broken bones.
It’s absolute. This deafening mystery. As the sun rises over the hills. In a caution of skin. It’s crutches. It’s crawling. Up to the edge of the island. The water fighting the urge to let us stay.
The sweetness if the ocean. The bitter of the waves.


~ by Indira Singgih on November 16, 2010.

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