The Emotional Orphan

Cool, damp skin
In a tropical breeze.
The smell of salt air.

But the ocean rises
Again in my chest and
I do not remember
How to swim.

Feeling storms approach
Lightning flashes
In my periphery.

My teeth crumble
When I smile or sleep.
First raindrops fall
Burgundy, Blood red
From my nostrils.

I feel the end is near,
I want for my last words
to not be resentful or bitter,
Full of fear, guilt, shame or remorse.

It confuses me,
But these are the signs.

When I was ready
it wasn’t time.

If it is time
I am not ready.

I suppose I said that before.

Just one more time
To ride the waves,
not fight them.

To not make
The fruits into wine.

The fruits alone
were not enough
because I thought
I knew so much.

Now that I know nothing,
the tropical storms ferment,
with or without me.