I have written a whole book of poems on this one town and who I found there, a version of myself that attaches herself to the ocean in a way that covers her with salt, salt in her hair, on her skin. I often thought of drowning there, not for the death of it but for the all-encompassing permanence of choosing a place as a home and remaining there.
This, though, is not where I come from, only a place that I have been. Much like love, it is comfortable and it tastes right, but it is only half of a circular whole.
My last walk past this lagoon, I thought about drinking the water but that felt too much like cinema, and I write myself into screenplays only occasionally. It is a vice I have learned to control.
This is not a salt water bay the way the rest of the town, and my whole body, is a salt water bay. This is fresh water, a sort of marsh, where each morning ducks would muddle their way through sun, but more often fog, in order to find each other's company. Yes, I have written books about this. I could write books about this.
The flight home was an impermanent blur of in-transit, un-showered melancholy. Returning, I washed my skin because the scent was something briny like those petrified wood beaches I photographed with such regularity. At home, I am not made of saltwater. At home, I should smell of vanilla, the way I have always smelled while at home. It took me longer than necessary to re-acclimate to eastern standard time. It was my body telling me to return, but not knowing in which direction to walk.