I am beached on my own shore, unmoving. There is weed in my hair and a certain sogginess about my fingertips. Pebbled. I lie still in the comfort of the dark.

The shush of the river soothes me; sweet, wordless caress.

Behind me, the Ferryman tends a small fire and has set my clothes to dry. I am wrapped in a blanket of enough. Thick and soft, enveloping. Enough.


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1 Response to enough

  1. Soothing. Written from the space between the rocks.

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