9.12.22

I miss the ocean. Or maybe it's that I miss something of myself. Those two hours I would drive down to Palos Verdes in the winter. Sitting over the expanse of the cove, climbing down to to meet the tides. Spending time with ______ right before she was about to leave. During that time of my life, everything was both drowning and burning. I had turned my face towards the water and thought to myself: warm sun, cold wind. I remember driving back at night, recounting how many times I've wondered how I might live without someone and then doing it somehow anyways. 

Talking to you the other day I said that I was having a hard time with the idea of "writing about" something. You said: "why write if we knew what it was about?" 

It seems that I am still walking through the dark here. After the autumn moon, New York has shifted a little bit towards the fall. Walking through the streets last night, I was met with a misty rain. I tried my best to pay attention to the sound of birds. On the train I had been thinking about the speed of light and how the entirety of a city might be straining to catch up. I'm running up to the platform, thinking that the light might take me with it to wherever it's going. 

_____, I am writing to you. Listen to me.

Maybe we are not meant to travel as quickly as light.
It's true we might not reach each other in time.
Maybe we will be alone because we cannot go fast enough. 

But, please, that doesn't mean we should hurry.