Terra Incognita

The tiny little island is a wedge of sod in the middle of a pond. Turtles paddle around it, bobbing their heads. The mold and moss would squish between your toes were you to set foot there. 

He grew up on this tiny little island in his heart. The island was only big enough for him, but he swam out as far as he could, or set sail on his yellow catamaran, calling to anyone who might hear his voice.

You cannot get to the island yourself. The person harboring the island in their heart can’t exactly get to it either, although they grow up on it. The tiny little island is surrounded by the fog of years. Yachts pass by it, choking the air with their fumes. 

The tiny little island he grew up on is now sinking below the water. The island is his original home, an Atlantis of the heart, and it sinks below the wake of the cigarette boat, the tumult of the ages of his own meager life.

As it sinks, he looks in the mirror and sees a glitch in the flesh of his neck, a flatness in the eyes like his soul has abandoned him, soaring out into the sky and latching onto birds, who also have flat eyes but who inspire us with their undying spirits and songs that pierce us to our hearts, that plunge into the sod of the tiny little islands in our hearts.