by Ireland Griffin ostudio you are sitting. by the edge of the dock, soft waves of moonlight making trails down your cheeks. a fishing rod is clutched, in your gnarled hand. held the way one would hold a lover. the salt from the air has seemingly made itself into a new man inside of the constraints of your skin. for why else would your top lip catch the edge of soft drops of water as it splatters down the dock. the sallowed lines of your face illuminated by the sky, your