Goose Island

Dream of what could be. Of tear soaked cheeks, waterlogged souls, so close to one another. There's duck fluff and goose down strewn across a path, a path trod on by two pairs of cracked heels. The trails are spiderwebs that etch the tiny island. Marooned in the pond, with the rest of the world unable to look in, but their eyes prone to pry out from the shallow clay cliffs. The shattered glass that they pull from their heels, not sharp enough to puncture, but dull enough to imprint, like a brand. Small circles in the ground where no weeds grow, where fallen leaves and snapped twigs have been pushed away, cleared out because of a spinning feet. Passing boats might hear the gentle hum of a girls voice or the soft giggles of the young people. It wafts above, above the ground, above their heads, above the trees and the leaves. It just floats, capturing every note. Swaying softly, with the music, swaying softly, with the wind, day dreams dig themselves into closed eyes. There are two faceless people, standing on Goose Island, swaying softly not to music or wind but to the empty drum of a single heartbeat. Each trip to the island makes the recurring daydream a little clearer, it makes the overheard conversations a little louder, it makes her voice a little lighter and his laugh a little happier, it makes his hair a little longer and her face a little less pale, it makes sunsets that kiss the trees across the water a little more golden, their seated spots on the ground- hers on the hardened clay, his on the tall grass- slightly worn. Soon you'll see the faceless people, are no strangers. They are slightly older, slightly taller, their hand hold slightly more comfortable, their movements more in sync. With every passing day, they become closer to the faceless people.