Western Shores in a Kaleidoscope

Repetition makes my heart quicken,

as the fully formed thought of you coming to my coast

reverberates up and down my insides.


We ended, crashing into finality as stupendous movements forced us astray,

robots delivering shades of green as the miles spun around in my automatic heart.


The story I wrote months ago,


wishing it had never been written,

because maybe I’m still in love with you,

unpublished, or scrawled across the walls for all to see,

unburdened, fleeing, fleeting, yet still somehow not completely free.


Lengths varying as this life feels pleasant yet incomplete,

another significant lover, far too good for me,

a melancholy mystery.


Letting go of what used to make me vibrate,

as I aim to accept this symphony that’s been had.

but this is my coast. I beseech you to recognize this truth.


Yet it’s like you scoff in silent delight, telling me it was always the plan,

when the lines have been crossed off,

the mountains utterly reversed. Indentations on the skin. Everywhere.


Streams floating back up, cavorting, as some unknown being screams,

eggs becoming unscrambled as time’s paradox plays a well-rehearsed trick,

the plants sprouting up all over my bedroom, as I awake in a newfound jungle,

drenched in the rays of a sun I thought had set for the very last time.


Arisen, returned, broken, never burned.

How am I supposed to cross this bridge,

when it wasn’t ever built?


There, on the other side,

you stand.


It’s just a matter of whether or not I can find a way to get to you.


It’s always blue.


And the freezing cold water chills my bones to their very marrow,

yet when I come up for air,

you pull me out.

Alexander Rigby