Brackish

You and I, a lone island in an ocean of throbbing. My wallowing edges meeting your rough, yearning dunes. Me, the lush fronds decaying in your drought-ridden heat. My soft, lacy edges, crisp and scabbed. With ocean waves constantly teasing. Saltwater-sickness, pressing against us in tempting tides of false relief. Our palates and bellies, unfamiliar with the reprieve granted by a sated second. Constant discontent. Constantly aching, constant. You and I, weathering the oceanic destruction and the withering heat to rebuild and rebuild and rebuild again.