next door to a ghost town

The abandoned ferris wheel leans against the clouded sky, bracing itself for another winter of snow and ice. The tourists have long gone, swapping their tan lined for sweaters and scarves. Leaves skitter across sidewalks and past ships that have closed for the season.

There's something about being a "local." It's like when you throw a house party that's full of music and laughter, then afterwards sitting down in your empty house and marveling at how quiet its become.

Yet, the waves continue their constant crashing; they never cease to caress the shoreline with their turbulent, outstretched fingertips. They don't know of the ghost town that sleeps beyond their beach.