To the Edge

Prince dies. The year reels with loss, magic dust floating in the rafters and sifting into space beyond. The week is warm, and I sleep my first nights with an open window. Second avenue is mad outside, for many hours still.

I spent the day cleaning, scrubbing corners long ignored and turning upside down the fabrics of my life to see what may have gotten lost in the folds. Nothing surprising appears, but the reminders are useful. May always makes you want to run; it lies in wait with the lilacs. It's almost been a year since I left Morton Street, but it seems a lifetime.

It occurs to me that love may be that thing 
where you never tire of the object 
of your affection. 
That you remain in awe, 
and grateful, 
every time you truly think of it. 
(April, 2015)

Consider the leap.
You're just as dead
if you stand still.