Monday

Hanakao’o during lunch. Already scarfed snacks. Seeking the still, to rest my heavy head against a palm, to breathe air not pulsing with particulates.

Haven’t been since our herpes call. This whole island is haunted with how it was, but sometimes I forget until I return. There is little peace anywhere while the heart continues to break.

Every memory ends with gut-slashing guilt. I know there is still love somewhere but this guilt and the absolute vitriol I have towards myself triumphs, entrapping me tightly in a smoky, impenetrable crust.

The canoeing folks paddle gleefully away from my melancholic cloud. I‘ve been told this island is paradise but today, when I sleep on this side of the island, when the memories catch me and tie me down, it’s difficult to see.