Disorder

It comes at last, like an old friend. It drapes your senses in damp, heavy cloth and drags you across the days. You listen to people speaking at you and it's all you can do to still look them in the eye. I thought it was better this year, you hear yourself say to no one in particular. You begin to suspect that it never will be.

I sat by their grand piano in the country, stale fingers tripping across the keys and it pains you to see how much you've lost. But I remembered the songs, remembered how they would tear at me and what anguish evaporated from me in their presence. The blissful calm that takes its place. I could have sat there for hours. She came in now and then, her little fingers playing trolls and princesses on the ivory and we laughed for a second, but I was somewhere else for most of the day.

A few days later, at a bar in the crooked streets of the West Village, his Russian accent said this is the last winter I'll spend here, as his dreaming eyes took him to palm trees and Venice Beach. I wanted to agree with him. But I know that won't be me. I've said I'll take you in sickness and in health.

The Darkness is here now, New York. I need you to help me hold my head above water.