She’s standing on a wooden peg in the middle of the ocean
I’m sitting in an office writing poetry on my lunch break
She doesn’t know how she got there
I know that it was me
She jolts to life but does it carefully, as one step would be the end
I don’t know where this stuff comes from, it’s haunting
She can smell the salt
I can imagine it
She braces against the wind
The air conditioning kicks on
She screams for help
I think I can hear it
She is crippled by her reality
And I’m left questioning mine
And only because I wrote it.
Am I responsible for the things I create?
Are they real?
Can she swim?