Some nights,
I dream of crystalline light
refracting off the Atlantic
just after low-tide
and wake up clammy
-
as if I expect sand
in the minuscule cracks
of my hands
-
as if I expect that glorious ache
that comes with a day exposed
to heavy sun and sea breeze
-
as if I expect that familiar tang
of burning cells and suntan oil and dried sea salt
on bare skin
-
these are heady types of mornings.
-
the steam rising from my second cup of coffee
- that rolling early morning haze that crashes down
with the overdue wave swells thrown at the shore.
-
cars hissing and honking and bleating
in the rain marred street
- pesky gulls that dive and screech and scavenge
on washed-up dead fish and left-behind picnic scraps.
-
Sitting on the windowsill as the sun tries to rise,
I look towards the city skyline
imagine the expanse of steel and concrete and glass
to be shrimp boats bobbing gently on the horizon
as I squint and convince myself that I can see
unexplored shores of Europe
unmapped islands
and the battered hulls of a thousand ocean liners.
-
I breathe deeply
and swear I can feel
sea air clinging to my lungs.
