i’m up on the roof replacing my tan lines with different ones.
i say “hello” to a pigeon out loud and it flies away from me, over the ledge and down to some other perch.
isn’t summer supposed to be the start of something? i’m bitter.
the clouds are scattered in a satisfying way across the sky, and i’m trying to figure out how to forget — as if forgetting is something we can will into existence, and not just a fortuitous happenstance.
you see, in california, you’d have to drive for hours just to remember you’re not an island. but i see new jersey from this rooftop.
perhaps the pigeon flew there.
i’m comforted by the smell of sunscreen and charcoal:
evidence of people going about their days in a state of constant forgetting, of rewriting the history of this dense, little island.
rewriting hurt feelings and lost love and burnt skin with yet another season, another weekend in june.
the trick to forgetting, i think, is simply not to remember.
i look down over the ledge to see if i can find the pigeon who ignored me.
i look up at my neighbors who sit on their own rooftops in the sun.
i think of you, forgetting me in a nearby borough.
my tan lines, i notice, have only just started to fade.