I traced the longitudinal lines in my palm / with a streak from a scattered broom / creating a sensational scene / in my body and heart / I was actually trying to leave my country /

As a child I read an Italian proverb, “They who sing through the summer must dance in the winter”. It used weather as a euphemism for happiness and sadness respectively. To my naive mind it was that, can I ever dance? Winter barely breathes in my land. Summers are real and winter bleaches over like a short dream. 

I want to be a Phoebe Bridgers song when I grow up. To be on all your Spotify playlists. To make you hit replay until your fingers are numb. Wouldn’t it be something, to crack your frozen heart? To be the worm that can curl up inside the apple-meat of it, a little tunnel just for me to hide in.

I awake to construction white noise / interspersed with the signals of trucks / in reverse. Men in yellow vests are fixing / a hydrant that has been pumping / water into the street for over a month.

First there was a word and the word was yes. / Yes, to the new apartment, smaller and darker / than the last but in a better neighborhood, / one with trees and trails. Still the iPod was stolen /

I blame myself. I was the one who encouraged the boy to learn to sail the boat his father had given him, and when he started talking about the island, I am the one who talked him into photographing it.