When I was a little girl I often found myself sprinting to the beach moments before the sun set behind the Verrazano bridge. My chest rose and fell with each breath of the salty sea air and my breathless pants grew louder in fear that I would miss the setting sun. If I had known better before, I would classify my consistent nightly returns to the beach as an addiction: pastel colors swirling together as the ocean crept up and fell back made my head erupt yellow, blues, oranges, reds, purples and pinks. When I arrived at the beach on those dying days I would revel in the feelings of prickly, damp sand that stuck between my toes. My petite hands covered my eyes, allowing the smell of saltwater and seaweed to fill my nostrils.
I took a deep breath and counted:
10
9
8
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5
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2
1
And after the last number left my lips and I pulled my hands back to my sides, I no longer saw a sky ablaze with swirling warm tones, rather I saw muted blues and the sun’s fading glow buried beneath the steel bridge. Always satisfied, I walked back to my house, anticipating tomorrow’s performance.
—
Now I no longer spend my days counting down the sunset, instead I count the steps it takes me to stumble from my place to yours long after the sun has gone down. My veins pump alcohol rather than adrenaline, and each pant that escapes my mouth is not from exhaustion but desperation. If I had known better I would call — no I would yell — that it was an addiction: loud, vibrating chords escaping your pale lips and hands that always clasped things a little too tightly, like you were afraid that everything was going to slip through your fingers and be gone forever. My hands, once suggesting days spent in the salty water, are now stained with your scent that no body of water can melt from my skin. My energy, once absorbed from the sun, has been replaced with melancholic moonlight. Now, I can see the world shifting before me like I did as a little girl but the familiar tones of yellow, orange and red have long been replaced by white dots that decorate the deep purple and dusty blacks of the sky.
I close my eyes and inhale the dewy leaves and listen to the crickets sing from the tiny marsh from my place to yours and the last thing I see is you walking away.
10
9
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5
4
3
2
1
And when I open my eyes and they adjust to the too familiar surroundings you are no longer there; instead I see a muddied path illuminated by the moonlight with footprints that grow smaller the farther I look. I try hard to catch my breath but it is in my lungs like smoke from a burning stove. I can’t help but think of you as my sunset. I realize I have been staring at beautiful things for far too long. I understand now they weren’t beautiful at all.