Long Island is long, at the very tip there is a lighthouse and autumn, cold winds from across the entire Atlantic and you didn’t bring enough clothes for this journey. The people along the beach are white, so white, with tan eyebrows and pockets lined with hundred dollar bills, I recoil against my best intentions. Later, at night when I go to fetch some forgotten object in the car, I see a million stars stretch across the night sky. It’s no desert darkness, no dusty Milky Way, but it’s still a light nudge from the Universe.
You are here.
I sleep to the sounds of crashing waves, autumn winds, tired resilience. Tomorrow will be cold.
You are here.
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