Angels

The sun is bright, April sun in January and at every red light I stop and stare straight into it. The streets are full of people, Saturday strollers and west village boutique shoppers, they all walk too slow and I pass them awkwardly, realizing soon I don't have the energy to keep up with everyone ahead of me. Union square is overwhelming, I know my eyebrows are creasing but I can't make it stop. Ride the escalator up to the fourth floor, I'm too tired to stand still but the bookstore is the only refuge I can think of. There's a reading area upstairs, just rows and rows of folding chairs and my first summer in New York I saw Regina Spektor here and it was a beautiful thing. I found an empty row near a column, carefully plan my seating so it will be uninviting to other readers. The book is all death and loss, my eyes can barely focus on reading. In the back of my head, words form and stroke me like an old friend would when you are sick. They so often show up when everything else is dead. It's a tricky tightrope to navigate. 

I keep falling off. It doesn't get any easier.