I miss the rain of white seagulls,
hundreds of seagulls over my eyes.
A white rain to wash over
and cleanse me
from all distress and ugliness,
and whiten me.
We aren’t ourselves
until we’re far away
from everything
we’ve created.
When aren’t ourselves
until we’re far away
from everything
that doesn’t gasp
and doesn’t laugh.
Considerably, extremely, far away,
in the wilderness of the beach,
barefoot on sand and rocks,
with our eyes lost on a sheet of blue sky,
with the wind and the crashing waves
singing in our ears.
If only we were always as white,
and as new, and as true.
*happy sigh*
