We arrive to find green water and a gloomy English sky.
There are white cliffs that come into sight, a seagull with a red birthmark smudged on a mustard beak. We name her Lady Gaga and keep walking.
H and I gravitate towards the cliff edge, mesmerized by fishermen’s battered nets, the pools of water, slick and still like an oil painting.
We find a river that cuts through stone to reach the ocean’s heart, having dug her fingernails into the left ventricle with webbed hands.
I wonder how you feel, if you will ever tell me.