I should write about the sea, speckled with white foam from the northern winds

and how I am watching it reel past my window in clear skies scrubbed clean by last night's downpour.

It was different then (speeding down the edge of a continent) in blinding rain,

mouth slightly open from the concentration and strain of keeping my wheel straight at 80 mph in a windstorm.

Later that night when the gusts blew the stars in and the guests were stumbling around and

suddenly, it was overwhelmingly clear. So I kept a smile and pictured you playing pool in a musty room, armed with your ego.

That night I scrubbed away the rest of our veneer.

My words were dry and shattering, brittle in cold air.