Say Something

Rain, rain, and the temperature drops. We take an early-morning train to the Upper West Side, marvel at the crowds already in motion with their day. We rummage through the leftovers before their move to wealthy suburbs. They're bringing the nanny. You haven't a single thing to say to her , but perhaps it doesn't matter. The rain continues.

I dreamed of you again last night. I keep waking up with such a sweet, familiar, comfort in my chest, but I'm not sure, if I told you, that you'd know what I meant. Travel approaches, a thousand miles across the waters and greeting the nightless land at dawn, with no rules made for the weeks to come. There's a part of you that has been sleeping for so long, an entire person hibernating, waiting for the right soil in which to grow.

Pack your bags. Sate her sleeping breaths. Reality can always wait for your return.