Girl, yes, you are an island.

Alone and far and mysterious. 

I mean fuck, you’re not even drawn on all the maps. 

Select few have discovered your shores and marked you on dog-eared ocean charts before passing by, or, having stopped to rest a while, leave you behind to make the next leg of their voyage.

They let down their sails and rest their souls; you give them what they need Gaia, and maybe they’ll circle back every so often and nostalgia will be kind to them, but for most you are a part of their journey. Not their whole journey.

So, yes. Girl, you are an island.

But you don’t have to wait for knights in shining armour to make the pilgrimage to find you. To craft boats and grasp paddles in red-raw hands, straining with effort to get to you. 

You don’t have to wait for lowly strangers to stumble upon your sands in their journeys to somewhere new. 

But you already know this.

You already know that the depths of you are so much more than what we can see above the surface. 

You already know that your roots delve below the deepest depths. Your sandy floors connect all of us; yes, you are an island, but you are rooted to all of us islands within the heartstrings of your soul. 

And that’s why you feel so deep, Island Lady. 

You hold the whole ocean in the palm of your hand and the curve of your hips and fullness of your heart. Within the roots of your hair the waves are born and with a tousle of your head the whole world is charged by your intensity, changed by the roughness of what you feel.

And one day you’ll realise that you don’t need a sailor.

Because you are wholly loved by the sea.