I dreamt I tore all my hair out,
then stretched myself limb from limb
until my arms circled the world
and I still couldn't reach you.
I wove you a cloak,
adorned it with my teeth and bones,
wished it would protect you.
I even left you my skin,
thin as these pages, and
took only my inheritance in a ribbed chest full of sea glass
(before it met the sea).
In the nighttime I filled my lungs
with saltwater and brine,
heavy in my pockets.
I am fine when I wake up because the moon is too bright
(and if you ignore the way the ocean follows its pull behind my eyes).
I lost my mind to the moon.
I lost myself to you.