The ship’s light is a broken beam across the surface of the water. I’m sipping air, lip-coating cold and clean. So clean. Here, in the night that isn’t dark. In the night that bursts with blue and green, with pink like sunset and gold like summer dawn, but is still night. I curl my gloved fingers around the brass rail. The sea spray has made the deck slippery and they say, they say, the sailors, that I must be careful out here.
But I’m not going in yet. I’m watching these lights and beside me, just around the bend in the rail, you’re outside your cabin too. In your space looking at the sky. We need to look at the sky. If I dance here, on the slippery, dangerous deck, maybe you’ll be dancing too. And if I let out one, loud, Howoooooooo, maybe you’ll hear that too. And maybe you’ll laugh outside your cabin. And, maybe we’ll meet at the prow there, where the ship is cutting her way. And we’ll hold our joined hands to the light in the sky.