evicted from the shipwreck

There's a building down the street they just painted, so that the new blossoms of the cherry tree in front stand out in sharp contrast. Everywhere the first pink blossoms have exploded out of dormancy. They're still clinging to the trees, though. The rain so far has been peaceful, constant late winter rain, the kind you wake up to find the streets have been washed by but never actually see. The tsunami rains of spring will be the next two months and only then will the cherry blossoms be loosed from the trees and make pink confetti drifts against the park walls and around the lips of puddles.

I won't be here to see it.

The ocean itself is only really good in spring and fall. In winter it's too cold to enjoy and in summer there are always people around. Once I caught the tail end of spring with a boy. We drove to the ocean and it was warm by the time we got there. We stripped down to our underwear, because the closest people couldn't have told the difference between our underwear and some theoretical swimsuits we might have packed if we'd thought we wouldn't freeze. We drank a bottle of wine, sitting mostly naked on a blanket in front of the closed eyes of the million dollar vacation homes.

Spring and fall are when the ocean is wild, and in spring and fall it's the only place I want to be. But here I go again, moving inland and away from it, springing forward all the way to a summer of sweaty parking lot nights.

I've planned one last caress, but I'll be the furthest thing from alone. My gods and I will say our goodbyes in some landlocked tattoo parlor a few months down the road, I guess. But I don't have enough skin to cover everything I'm going to miss.