The night I leave, I tell you we call it “baggage”

and not “cargo” because it only takes one person to throw it overboard. 

Six hours ago, Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s mascara-smudged built a home

in my laptop screen for the first time, and our wreckage was no longer beautiful.

Do you remember that time we went to a lighthouse up north? 

Do you remember how broken it was?

Do you remember how the plaque burned in the sunlight? 

I am asking you to let me go free. I am asking you to give up

the ghost of our first night. I am telling you no one is worth drowning

for. I am telling you saltwater is bad for your skin, so stop crying. You don’t

know how to float on your back, your father never taught you, so I’ll be the one 

to dive into the ocean. I’ll take your failure with me. I wish I could tell you

the jump is metaphorical, so you’d put down the phone and finish your pasta.

Just reach your hand across the table, grab mine, 

stroke the back of it with your thumb. Let’s jettison the memory 

of sunset ferries and shining coastal ports, of the weekend we met 

in Provincetown. I’ll wash up on the shore, stomach on hot sand,

seaweed in my hair, and my breath will sail you into the eye of the storm.

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