Home is phone

Sometimes it feels like

I am putting notes in bottles,

our conversations

as they go line by line.

There is a distant shared sea

within us.

Islands of you and me

are in this sea

and all our mingling ocean currents

strangely bring most of these bottles

to this one shore within you.

You pick them up immediately,

open and read . . .

There are salvos between the lines

as broken dreams between bottles,

lights go on in a darken room

that make the room itself get larger.

The walls smile.

The looming sky is begging

for a humbling entry.

These notes are in a myopic code.

Time reads the fine print to you directly.

Your blessedness sees the whole page.

Your visual grip softens

until the notes themselves levitate,

right there.

Eventually,

the notes become pageless of frame,

as if just a paging.

Pick up the white phone!

Any white phone,

well, any phone.

Home is phone.

Calling oneself on everything.

The sea runs through these veins.

The heart sponsors the sea.

Why then are we islands?