Lykke

Manhattan swelters, here summer arrives at last and it is as brutal as you had tried to forget, everything is a blurred edge, your skin included. They write from across the world and revel in the season; we survived the dark and we earned this -- no one works. My phone is a steady stream of bare feet by the ocean, of simple dinners on boats and long, slow sunsets over the city: the ache in my chest returns, of a home I have forgotten lives in me. I ran along the river later, the early sunset washing Williamsburg skyscrapers in peaches and blues like they knew nothing of other shores and didn't care to. Underneath the Brooklyn Bridge, I stopped to rest in the view, to hear the city beat its steady rhythm along my temples. A bag packs itself in my periphery. A melancholy joy builds in my chest. 

We cannot escape everything we are.