The sound of a whistle floats above.

Pale green, long and thin strings of wild grass lean with the gentle gust,

it’s a draft on a winter night and my skin is chilled.

Chills from the cold and chills from the memory…

memory of a frozen place; reality.

But when I squint and I open my eyes I am reminded of this warmth-

this place in my head where I truly am, and I can truly always be.

The sun hurts my head and I have proof of this beauitful rapture in my own mind.

A never-ending shoreline,

my traced body in the sand,

a valley to my left

I’m with my essence, hand in hand.

Stuck inside a stare

and strangers wonder where I am.

I’m in this ecstasy,

my home in a faraway land.