I was not cast away— there was no storm, no spectacle, no ship torn on scornful reefs. I left of my own choosing, carried by want and weary breath to the shore where silence outnumbers grains of sand.
Morning: I cup the sunrise in briny palms, its gold runnelling through my lonely fingers. Shells rattle like old stories. I tally what remains: Salt. A single knife. Memory adrift like driftwood, heavier wet. And a hunger that is not for bread.
No maps, but heartlines on my skin rawing north to what I was. Why am I here? To shed—scales of fret and fear, to wrestle with what surges when the world grows still, when even the gulls forget my name.
I build a fire from wind-whipped branches— flames flicker, the only dancing left to this body molded by longing. Nights, wrapped in insect-din and moon’s cold hush, I barter dreams for sleep: sometimes, fevered rescue roaring on impossible sails; sometimes, contentment in the undemanding dark— no eyes to judge, no rules but those I write in wavering ink across the stars.
How am I surviving? I invent myself again, each dawn. Muscle fashioned from patient hope. Spirit distilled by thirst. Survival is not always a battle— more quiet negotiation with shadow and sun.
Do I want escape? The wind asks daily; the waves have no answer. I grow to love the ache of my echo— how it comes back, changed—smaller, softened. Solitude shapes me: Not deserted, but refining. I am what remains when the noise is winnowed out, whittled to sturdy bone.
Some days, I build a raft in my mind, lashed with laughter I almost recall— ready, perhaps, should the world call me home. But mostly, I dig my toes into the sand, let solitude teach me its steady, salt-bright song.
For here, I am alone— but at last, I am utterly myself.
Jaideep, this feels like a meditation carved from salt and stillness. “I grow to love the ache of my echo” especially lingers with me—such a poignant image of solitude not as emptiness, but as slow transformation.
Absolutely empowering! I admire the narrators desire above all to be one with self. The solitude is secondary to the immense personal growth! Brilliant!
Wow, Jaideep, your poem is luminous—a meditation on chosen solitude that feels both vast and intimate. It’s lyrical, with imagery like “heartlines on my skin” and “hunger that is not for bread” evoking deep emotional and spiritual yearning. This island isn’t exile—it’s transformation. A stunning, quietly triumphant piece. 🌴👏
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Poetry Hub 
Hello. Thanks for visiting. I’d love to hear your thoughts! What resonated with you in this piece? Drop a comment below and let’s start a conversation.