Crane Wife

Stockholm, 3 a.m. and dawn. The soles of my feet so weary, the souls of my feet. Worn. I know where to turn, I know where the bridge is; it's not the one you said but I found it. The city is quiet now, so quiet, and light. All I can think of is Houston street, on one of those mornings, how many mornings there were; this walk is longer. These shoes used to walk those streets; is it always this quiet here? Every minute is closer to morning. It was already morning when we parted.

You said, it will be okay, and I didn't think much of it, but those streets leave me so much time to think and when I digested your words all I had was tears.

I took my shoes off before I reached the bridge. It didn't help. I was still left alone with my thoughts and that ache in my feet. Don't settle in, don't pack your bags. Limbo is eternal.

If you would only hold my hand, I imagine it would be okay. If I would only unpack my bags, perhaps this would be real enough and I would stay. The city is light, now. I will sleep until I wake.