The Kingdom.

I met you on a beach.
sat in the sand;
the crashing of the spaceship.
Peterson pelted New York
while kin seek to drop his notorious name.

You sped it up,
I swore you were a world.
I set sail 48 times that day.
Led you astray;
You wore the rain on your sleeve.
Surrounded you,
absinthe after dinner.
Typography and the bandit,
warm winters and colder evenings.

It wouldn't kill you
to read the sign.