JFK

Mountains upon mountains, dry desert sands and wrinkles in the ground, you know the land beneath you like you know the map of your own skin. The sun sets quietly behind you as the plane races into night, back to home. You read Anaïs Nin and contemplate New York concrete in summer, the touch of strangers. Delight in the freckles forming along your arms, but that is the only remnant of the west coast you want to retain. Let the rest wash off in the night. 

Tomorrow you will wake up to he sounds of Second avenue, and if ever it angered you before, you will smile at it now and all will be forgiven. Manhattan spreads out beneath you like a beloved friend. Whispers of a million mornings in its embrace. Of a million nights when you may rest.