just a body angled toward water that isn't there,
umbrellas from somewhere she's never been,
a t-shirt worn like it belongs to someone else's summer.
the mind travels faster than any plane.
it builds poolside out of longing and half-remembered postcards,
out of a color she saw once and couldn't stop thinking about. pink umbrella, teal umbrella, a city blurred behind glass like it's already a memory before it's even real.
this is the whole trick of imagination — you don't have to leave to arrive somewhere else. you just have to want it enough to paint it true.
she's already there.
a version of herself that exists only because she let it.
