You fall with your eyes closed because otherwise you wouldn’t dare. You open them underwater ecstatic that all parts of you are still where they should be. Fear is a thing, like saltwater. Sometimes you can wash it away and sometimes you have to let it burn your eyes and skin, you have to bear it.
If the Pacific
Meets the Atlantic
Meets the Mediterranean
Why can’t we meet?
Wish You Were Here
On a day very much like this one, bright and warm with a perfectly blue sky, I sat down to write you a postcard. “Wish you were here,” I wrote, but I doubted you’d believe me and anyways there was nowhere to buy stamps in the middle of the volcanic crater.
We saw planes and clouds, and islands with beaches and coves and ports with little fishing boats. We saw the sun reflect on the water as we chased after it and then saw it set in glorious pinks and purples and then saw the sky turn to a dark blue night. We watched the moon—it was full that night—and the stars and then each other for a while until we fell asleep. We did not see the in-flight movie.