A Light at Easter
There is a traffic light that I can see through the windows of my flat. I find it slightly mesmerizing. For me, it is like the light at the end of Daisy’s dock in The Great Gatsby. I stand at the window and stare at it. I don’t know what I long for—or, I do know, but it’s too much to explain—but that traffic light somehow seems to sum it all up, or somehow hold all of my wishes and woes in its glow.
I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll be back in London. I had good weather for most of my stay, but London is crying tonight at having to let me go.
I love you, too, London.