Enfin

A day passes in words. All morning I stall and fiddle but it's part of the process. Anyone who can write poetry before noon has us all fooled. (as though what you are writing is poetry, you scoff, but nevermind.) They seep in through unseen channels and fall out of your fingers, the words, when they come. Your computer is too old to keep up, and the keys give up one by one, until you are pounding away to make even the shortest prepositions. Lord knows it still beats writing by hand, because no one would know they story you tell, not even you yourself and what is the point of falling in a forest if ain't nobody there to hear you go?

Soon, too soon, it is well past midnight and the lights across the courtyard are all turned out. You see the shapes of clouds like purplish specters over the brick buildings. The trees have all lost their leaves now, except the gingkos on Leroy Street: they wash the entire street in a bright yellow blanket and play pretend at being their own sunshines. Fashion bloggers delight.

They call from the motherland; Sundays were always the day for catching up. The baby grows, your heart twists in longing, but when they ask you how you are, you say fine, because there aren't words enough for how good they really are.

You failed at every
single
thing you ever hoped for
and dreamed of
except this
one
thing.

And it makes all the difference.