Dipper

The morning warms. I speed through the mountains of work until the sun beams down on the splintered wood deck, what is life on the gold coast if not a carefully manicured humility. We sit on the beach and watch surfers feign casual while their wallets bulge, watch dogs careen along the breaking waves and everything has an air of suspended time, nothing is real here. 

Later, we stand in the dark and watch the Milky Way cloud itself in a ribbon across the skies, a web of stars pulsating against the insignificance of our impossibly short lives, my hair still drying from salty waves. How small we are, after all, and yet how much room all these insights can take. 

I go to bed alone. 

The life feels longer, then.