Avocado Pears

Home returns in pieces. In liquid East Village brunches and short glimpses of elusive skyscrapers from the High Line park. In scents of warm mulch and dirty asphalt, sounds of sirens. I slept for hours one day and didn't leave the house except to walk the poor dog in pouring rain. Comfort in closed doors, trying to repair the broken seams and replace the filling that fell out when I wasn't paying attention. I take out notebooks and Bic pens, trying to make sense of what my gut has been telling me. Home returns in words.

It occurs to me that not every one makes their life this crooked. That not every one twists and turns these Questions into unrecognizable daggers that can never be carved out of their hearts.

To be honest, I don't know why I do it.

To be honest, I don't know now how to stop.