a love letter to the atlantic

i.

You know what I hate about this place?

It drags you in and it never lets you go.

You live and you shit and you die in the same spot. Take one breath, and every fibre of your being becomes soaked in the sea—an unescapable smell (stench) of small city big town glory.

I saw an old friend yesterday. They’re trapped, I think, making the best of what they have in the time they have.

Tell you a secret? I only feel pity for them.

Walk down _______________ in your _______________ to feel something, waiting and running far, far away…

ii.

Just like that, we’re done.

I’ll miss the ocean, the terrifying thrill that sparks a quiver from every nerve in my spine, thrumming and humming and sprinting beneath my skin. The solid wave (of nostalgia) that rocks me to my core, the flip of my stomach as I clutch my bike on a ferry surrounded by fog and sun and old strangersacquaintancesfriends.

(I was the same age as them once.)

I’ll miss the drives, the buzz of the motor beneath my fingertips, the coarse rawness of my throat after screaming out someone else’s pain from 8:07 AM to 8:53 AM.

I love my city like I love myself—hate unmatched and adoration unconditional, parts of me in every pore, memories littering the sidewalks of spring’s garden (the street and the park and the metaphor). Another part of me knows I’ll never come back again.

Am I immortalized yet? Or am I as insignificant as I was when I left?

I’ve said goodbye to this city one too (two) many times, homesick for a home that’s already been sold. But I don’t think I’ve said thank you.

So: thank you. You gave me everything and took it all away. You let me become someone I might like someday.

I love you.

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