My Last Trip to New York

Three months in and still no waves. It’s hard for me to write to you these days. Rusty anchors drag down my sails and dedication through the cold sea. Along the floor the bottom of the house in my basement I have a gun stashed away behind my tools. The other night I thought I might have to use it. The wind was calm for the first time all day and the silence was too much for me without you there. So, I unlocked the liquor cabinet and got some matches that I had in there. I walked to the stairs and lit my lamp. The oil burned slowly which gave me time to put my jacket on. The messy memory of the past weekend like a shadow on the wall reflected the light from the lantern against the table. A magazine I flipped through earlier was on the thick glass and I remembered it reminded me of my last trip to New York…