A Glowing Light, An Impending Dawn

Counted all the numbers down and I woke up in Brooklyn with half of my brain melted into the sidewalk. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. You were only an island away, but it felt like the world. And I thought about love and the problems with privilege. Walking back from the hospital, hands in my pockets, recalling our conversation about who we are and who we used to think we’d be. How strange it is that we turn out so differently. You spoke softly to me but your words sent me reeling. You said it wouldn’t be long till your body was gone and you’d wave as you floated across. So I stared at the sky. It was calm on the coastline. And I said, “If that’s the case, I will swim in your wake towards the light on the lake as it fades back into you.” I will become a monument to what was once lost. Promise me you won’t stand still. Here’s to carrying on with the weight of a ghost in your wake. Carry on with the weight of a ghost in your wake. When you’re gone, I can promise you that you’ll live on in the glowing light of the impending dawn. We’re still waiting. “Are we reflections or next in succession?” A change of direction phrased as a question.