Overs

It occurs to me that my words were better before. That my blood coursed quicker in poetry and has since slowed. My fingertips are cold.

It occurs to me that there is too much to sort through, to break down and build back up. I do not know how to do it. It is not a matter of choice.

Perhaps it was New York that did it, that sent music to my plain existence and painted the stories in more vivid colors, more appeasing strokes. I am not in New York. What else is there to say?

It occurs to me that it is time for a break. There will be more. But I have nothing left to give, now.