Sharpen Your Knives

I cannot read your words anymore, she says in the heavy silence between sips of a drink, it doesn't seem right anymore. You neglect his novel ambitions, forget to submit your own in time. Words slip through your fingers. Listen to what I say, pay no attention to what I do, you hear yourself whisper, but as the days go, you find it difficult to trust either. It is all fun and games until they look at you with that sentiment in their eyes and you bring out the daggers from the inseam of your boots.

The lilacs are in bloom along Union Square this week. You trace fourth avenue and cross the park at the south end, narrowly avoiding the pile of bikes on the steps and staring at the flowers like they will give you new life. (Because they do.) How quickly life takes on a new shape entirely, and you forget it was ever any other way. The street outside your window beats its scrappy, messy noise into your ear drums.

It sounds like music; you sleep like a child.