from home, between coasts

at home during the summer i walk into the kitchen, open the freezer, and take out a fudge pop whenever i’m bored or hungry.

from the northeast or northwest coast in the summer i walk in the woods during the morning and evening without sweating, i never get bored, and i pluck ripe wild blackberries off bushes when i feel snacky.

at home during the summer i sweaty dance up an intense internal heat that makes the 92 degrees at midnight feel cool(ish) when i leave the dancehall.

on the northeast or northwest coast in the summer i dance on the beach, i dance into the ocean, i dance til i shiver beneath a full moon inside a hair-whipping breeze.

at home during the summer i hastily plan my next escape from a ten-day forecast of triple-digit high temperatures.

from the northeast or northwest coast in the summer i wonder why i permanently reside somewhere with a summer i can’t tolerate.

at home all my bad habits are waiting for me.

from the northeast or northwest coast i am temporarily exempt from most of my vices.

at home my big fluffy cat and my new skinny kitten purr for me.

from the northeast or northwest coast i pet the cats i encounter as i explore new streets.

at home i work too much and sleep too little.

from the northeast or northwest coast i barely work and sleep more than i can at home.

at home during the summer i avoid grocery shopping until after dark.

from the northeast or northwest coast in the summer i avoid grocery shopping altogether.

at home during the summer a sluggishness descends like a depression without sadness.

on the northeast or northwest coast in the summer i interact with a lightness that erupts into giggles and goofiness.

i returned home from the northwest coast a few days ago. a few days from now i depart for the northeast. i wish i could take you with me in a private bubble where you could play in your space and i could play in mine and we’d meet for tapas and tequila on the beach at sunset to exchange delighted squeals of laughter as we run full-speed into mushy cold waves that splash against our thighs until we turn back and run dripping wet to a bonfire built next to an abandoned sand castle that some lucky child constructed from dreams and fairy tales and left us the orange plastic shovel and bucket if we’re inspired to dig a moat or erect a tower.

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About angel joy

love is an action verb. i live love in action.
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