If I could turn back time and pee in the ocean for a wee bit.

Here is anger on the wind.

Nostrils flare, clouds darken.

They say she was an angel, come down to sit, just sit for a spell and let time pass. Where she comes from there is none. Time that is. She has affectation to fruit wine and is completely smitten with me.

We went down in the valley. We grabbed handfuls of clay and sand. Our hands were dirty, fingernails lined with cheap polish and regrets and a thimble full of hope. And we built.

My father, he used dreams for mortar. His was an ugly house.  So be it. So it was ugly but it was his. His dreams crumbled to sand after awhile.

I used hope. Just these small threads. I figured if I had enough threads it would become stronger and stronger. I was wrong but I held on. Because if you braid a few, they become stronger. But if you live long enough…it still all turns to sand.

So be it. We’ll sit on a beach and sip whiskey neat and smoke cigars like dictators.

Sometimes she wears her silk necktie when we fuck. And of the world, annd through it  and here she is, I covet. At night I push her scarf into the cracks of our house. Every little bit helps. She asks me if I’ve seen it and I point and she smiles, but then falters…

“I need a new kerchief now…”

And so we scour the beach. Flotsam but no kerchief and it seems as though the whole ocean is fresh out of kerchiefs. So we settle for a bit of plastic bag that washes up, we leave the “have a nice day” because it’s a pleasant red to the white of the bag. She looks wonderful.

We bake in the sun.  A year ago we were desperate to get off this island, now we hide behind boulders when we see ships pass by.

Like do I really want anyone meeting us in a loin cloth? I think not. We camouflage our cave and we try to clean up any little we find. Sometimes being stranded is all you really want. We took down our help sign.

It is freeing, just to fuck where you want to. To cook a meal anywhere, to go to sleep on the opposite side of the island and you know what? No one cares. It’s not a big deal. You never get away from the sound of the ocean until. To not worry about loving but to just, live. 

The storms come in. Then you really can’t get away from the storm. Water trickles down in our cave, but we are dry and warm, we fill half broken bottles and pieces of trash with drinking water. We take showers in the thunderstorms. Lightning flashes and for a bit we are illuminated in the paleness of an ephemeral light. 

I sit and watch the storm scoot away across the sky. It leaves wreckage and calm. We pick through all the trash that’s been washed up. Morry finds a bit of cloth and trades her plastic kerchief for one that looks like a bit of cheetah print.

Sometimes I wait for low tide. Low tide is the best. We pick among the rocks and plants. We find oysters, and abalone, and trapped octopus. Crabs galore.

Our fire is high tonight. We eat and talk about the storm, about what might wash up tomorrow

We make love right there by the fire. With the sky above us. The flames flicker across her flanks. We fuck like beasts of burden. I cum inside her and it is always good. She cums shortly after and we lay there in the sand, me above her. Holding hands and catching our breath. Sand everywhere but we are in love.

There is a surprising amount of reading material that washes up on this island. Our library grows daily. Sure they are water logged and mishapen, smelling of mildew and the ocean, but a books a book. We read voraciously.

Morry has gotten very good at weaving. She even made us outlandishly large straw hats to keep us out of the sun. They flop when we walk. We have walking sticks, little canteens and fire starters and glass knives that cost me more than one nick and scratches on my fingers and these wonderful hats. With all this we rule this island. 

Sometimes my favorite times are just sitting with her, wrapped in a blanket, talking and watching the sun come up. Baking fish in the fire, and that first peek of the suns head, that ray, it feels like it’s only our. The bit of book that washed up on the shore assures me that the sunshine isn’t ours but fuck it. So I take sun rays or sunshine sometimes for my own.

We came to this island fully clothed and as the sea messes with us, and the salty wind, our clothes were eaten off our bodies by the weather.l  I have some shorts, some sandals. Morry made a skirt.

It’s so odd. One moment we are in the lap of civilization, the next Morry is trying to find her last bra, and I am watching the seagull who nicked it fly off and she has the audacity to cover herself with her hands. I chuckle.

“Honey, what are you doing? Who’s going to see you?” She looks at me for a moment blank faced. Then her face relaxes, and she puts her arm to her side.

“Perhaps for a bit, but I think I’d like to make my self a coat for when it’s colder.” And two here we are, running around a deserted island, our skin baked and dark, our teeth whiter because of it. Just not caring anymore. We are free. 

We are angels of the sand and sun. More attitude with the lack of technology. Like we have this need to hold electricity in our hands. Like we are addicted to the charge. Sometimes during thunderstorms we wave metal hangers in the sky. Both of us drunk on rainwater and craziness.  We make love a lot in the storms, just screaming our heads off and laughing and loving. We fuck against the storm, trying to be louder than the lightning. 

Sometimes I wish this was always our life. Just Morry and I, liquid salt and good food and sunshine.

I love her. As surely as breath I adore her. Sometimes we sit up and night, just talking and making each other laugh. Talking long into the night. She enchants me. Back in the world we’d always come home with some bit of news to talk about. Some story to laugh about. Holding hands as we watch a show. 

Now is much the same. We walk the beaches, and bathe in the sea, and we survive. I dream of whales and the sea gulls cry. My dream are of my next day, and what I will dream, what I can make with my hands and How my hands feel so good resting on her hip.

 And Morry, she has blossomed here as well. Gone are the worries, and shyness. Gone are the worries. She absolutely shines here. Whether she’s swimming off the island and playing with sea weed or prying oysters off rocks with sticks, Or telling me about where we should go next, and the history of the place, and she is beautiful. She still has  her styles, her fire, her grace, she still starts fights and she is still stubborn. Life doesn’t just become perfect like a romance novel, but we are always close to the best rom com ever I think. She still blames me for things I have no control over, and she still inspires me to be a better person. To think around problems, to push ahead. To demand a common level of respect. I only hope I do as much. I do not feel like I do.  I do not know anymore.

I wake in the morning and I try to be as sweet or as good as her.  And I try to do better, little by little. I mean I can’t do a lot on an island but simple pleasures, simple kindness, I try. You want the other half of my coconut? Bits of glass that wash up? She says they are bit “down at heel” but she still wears the bracelets and necklaces and bobbles I give her, till they break off and roll back into the sea at least. 

If we were born from the sun our smiles would not shine so bright. If we came from the storms our laughter would sound like thunder. M

I am not perfect but I try. And I’m not necessarily nice, but I’m trying. And I can’t say for certain how I’ll react on any given day and I wish I had all of my things figured out. I do.

I know this. I love her  more and more every year. Because of imperfect her. Lovely her. weird, funny her., fussy her, Smart her, clever her, Mean her, argumentative her, I don’t ever want her as a toy on a shelf, I want her down here living and laughing with me, in the dirt under our fingernails and love. I want her living and breathing next to me. 

I know in my heart maybe I don’t fit her perfectly, I wish to god I did, but I’ll wittle down as much as I can to fit beside her. I fucking know that. She is it for me. She is the only stop that matters.

She is my everything Morry, forever and ever. Amen.

That’s what I know. And I love being stranded on a deserted island with her. I know that too.

 And sometimes it is the night that bird cries out in the darkness, or a ravaged lover. Who can tell as we meld ourselves together one more time.  She is as  bright as day I tell you. Like winter white and so shiny. My everything.

Mine are the seagull cries, and I find another bit of shiny glass to give her with sand and dirt, and her hands encircle mine and the seagulls quiet.  I smiles and she smiles back.