we met in a dive bar outside of Charlotte.
she had broken someone's heart,
and stolen his car.
it was as if the light that night.
designed our kismet to kiss and go.
we made our way south to where rockets launch.
where we could sleep on the beach without being bothered.
for sixteen and a half days.
we were fresh fruit and rotting vegetables.
borrowing boards from drunk surfers.
eating with brown strangers.
we made love under the pier.
neither of us talking of the past.
night swimming was a silent activity.
aside from the waves and the loud moon.
one night, the last night, as it were.
I told her I have to go back.
she said she did, too.
and the next dawn she was gone.
so I hitchhiked to center state.
and caught a flight back to New York.
with nothing but a sunburn and a story.
not even a name.