Still

I have the window open to Second Avenue, a round fan in the window, no screen. The street is loud, so loud every night and thick layers of soot trail into my room, but here's the thing. 

No matter how broken I am, how lost and entrenched in the war that is being alive, when I take my glasses off at the end of the night, and look at the blurry lights through that open window. 

Nothing is ever wrong that is not made right by the sight.