There's no place left to drive
, you say, the land ends here
. Out from the car, shoes off and sand in between toes
, wading until the ocean upholds our torsos
. . .
Now, there's hands & the setting sun: we clutch at one another, we watch water consume light. I want to go further and capture jellyfish, but you keep me still; I am still, a child.
I was still a child and could not breathe when the lights were dimmed. A hotel room, indistinguishable from myriad others: two beds, a dresser, television (sans the promised HBO), vanity mirror, bathroom, an uncomfortable chair & a table. But when I was with you there was always light. Nighlights in your suitcase; you were my savior. Tomorrow there is Nevada & California--that's as far as we can go. I cried myself to sleep.
Miles before the hotel, I slept in the car, I dreamt: the waves & the light reflecting forever & pawprints on the beach & then stars everywhere. You promised me this, and you said we would chase the light, we would scare it away and then I'd know that darkness was light subdued, a luminescent kitten. But when I awoke, the sun had gone. I went as fast as I could; you can't outrun the inevitable.
When you had said Follow me I mistakenly believed you knew to where it was you headed. All I had wanted was constant daylight & I imagined there was a place where it existed. I was and am a child--this is clear by the way you watch my steps, lead me back to the car, talk thoughtlessly about seagulls; clear by the way I am silent. Wanting to tell you that what I sought was positive not negative. . .knowing you will not understand.
Driving on the highway, you hum along to "Good Vibrations."
Seagulls circle towards the sun you said.
I want to be a seagull.
I want to follow only the light, not its shadow.