inside the drawer of this oak bedside table,

an indigo box lies.

Decorated with stars, and more crescent moons

than I can see in the night sky.

Inside, aquamarine pills

rest in their foil cubicles,

like the Pacific ocean bottled

in a case of gel.

I'm so far away,

so far away

from home.

Home,

I had the same pills,

and I remember popping them

one by one, out of their safety jackets,

dropping them upon my tongue

like catching the odd snowflake in the rain.

After that, they were taken away,

and I, lost in a coma, did not wake

for a day.

My little oceans removed,

but I had the sea.

Here,

I am allowed

to do as I please.

To poison my lungs with cigarettes,

to adventure across rainbows with illegal substances,

to drink until the cold feels like

the gentle breeze off the sea.

Here, there is no sea,

save for what is captured in these capsules.

Tonight,

tonight, I do not devoured them all,

do not even flirt with the idea

of gulping down a sea

so I can forever drift away in peace.

Funny how when I think of the little island where I grew,

I was happy only in my misery,

but living in this tiny cell with a world of ice outside,

my bones too chilled to break,

I am at peace.

And I am able to sleep, and dream of the sea,

and know the next morning, I will face the day,

the ocean gone just like the pill

dissolved inside of me.

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