On Mirrors

Eyes rest on your words, and they grow silent. You go to the top floor, to the back corner, to that sign that clearly says DO NOT SIT ON THE FLOOR and you sit down. It's that same book in your hand, you've been picking it up all week, the edges worn before you began but now the pages fold, too. You are too poor to buy it, you're reading it on layaway, one day you will bring it with you when you go. Big tears roll silently down your cheeks, but in that bookstore, on that soft carpet, you are safe. Seven years ago you sat in the exact same spot and let New York sink its teeth into your soft skin, nothing has changed.

I fall apart a hundred times a day, the pieces didn't magically weld together, we do not escape ourselves simply by running away. But all it takes is looking up Seventh avenue, to that stack of buildings in the distance, or the Empire State resting soundly beyond, ever present, ever watching, to make me breathe a little deeper, walk a little steadier. All it takes is remembering that I am here, now, and tomorrow as well, to make me sleep a little sounder at night.

When the pieces refuse to fit like they are supposed to, a puzzle board city to keep them from spilling into the void proves more valuable than first you knew.