I am not the girl in the picture. I am not the smell of hyacinths. I might be the boy. I am off the record. I am not a view from the island, not the sound of waves breaking, not parasols scattered on sand. I am closed for the season. I’m fingerprints on windows that look out on rain. I am rain that rains harder. I’m not the new fashion, not hands on a clock. I don’t spring forward. Cannot turn back. I am yellow caution tape strung from pole to pole: Police line do not cross. I see the sky but nothing in it, just spots on the sun. Then the long twilight. Then the crackle of stars.