I rode the subway today. For the first time since the world collapsed I ran down dirty steps at 2 Ave to a familiar underground air, as though nothing had happened and I knew just the way. I had to buy a new metro card, where was my old one, did I stow it away in a museum, frozen in time to remember lives past, it got stuck when I swiped it and the Brooklyn bound F train arrived with a tailspin the second I flirted down the stairs and tears found themselves stuck in my throat at the sight. Here we are like nothing. The sounds were the same, the voice in the train car, the light in the tunnel. A new voice reminds us to keep our masks on. Everyone is properly spaced out and still, as if waiting. We collectively hold our breaths, waiting for the world to end.
I went to the beach, to the ocean, my source of reset. The sea was in a tumult, waves crashing and the beach painted in red flags, the horizon wiped out by fog and the behemoth apartment complexes shrouded in mystery. I took deep breaths and tried to see the future. It was as opaque as the view. A rainstorm pulled in before my shoulders even turned brown. I jumped in the waves, let them beat me for a while, then pulled on damp sandy clothes and trekked back to the A train. I saw your face on the screen today, asking for love.
But this isn’t it. All I have is grains of sand.
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