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…

About The Future

I’m too hungry to write I’m satisfied the clouds are overhead today. She sleeps a few blocks down, away from the beach under an electric blanket. It’s that cold out here I’m still hot from earlier I wonder if she’s lying awake. Her second floor apartment was nice. The cat has claws however buttery soft brown fur. I can’t tell you why but I feel like I finally got to her. Maybe that’s what she wants me to think, make me let my guard down. Eight o’clock in the morning and I want a beer. And a smoke. And another round with her. I hope my cousin got home OK, we left kind of quickly. The noise from the speakers in the dark room made me not want to cross the dance-floor to say my goodbyes. I’m coming back to see her tonight. We’re going to watch a movie about the government or something. God, she lives far from the train. I finally make it to the corner. The highway is empty and it starts to drizzle. I put my black hood on and walk toward the station. I love this sweatshirt. The wind whips around the parking meters and the tall grass in the sand. Music soothes my sore muscles and works my brain into focus. I button up my coat. She told me that she didn’t like to fly but she wanted to go to Fiji so she was saving up to buy a boat. I take off my headphones. The silence of the morning sounds like feedback thick and very loud. The waves rush and crash in the distance. A streetsign bangs against the newspaper machine it’s chained to. I take a seat on the curb, watching a pigeon drink happily from a puddle, thinking about the future…

How Alive I Feel

The relevancy of my attention becomes less and less as the evening progresses. Why she agreed to this night is beyond me, unless I am misreading nerves and shyness as perceived ambivalence. You know of whom I speak. She has long brown hair and a fresh tattoo of a mermaid along her left side. The lights in this nightspot are too dim. I cannot see her well enough. Although, I feel she is looking right through me. Why else would someone ask her out for drinks? She must know my intentions, my dull dreams and aspirations. Youthful cravings not satiated by drugs or drinks, only time. Her dark skin is so so smooth. Each time she blinks the smoke out of her pale green eyes, her eyelashes, long and curved, bat me farther away. I am on an island in the tropics. The trees are velvet and the sun is blown out. Black as night, my heart pumps blood. I do not trust the locals. The bar is crowded, but no one else is here. We speak quietly. The music is slow and mellow. I ask her if she’s enjoying herself. She leans over me and says yes, reaching across my body for her pack of smokes. I place my drink on the bar, and gently take the cigarette from her hand. I inhale, and tell her how alive I feel…