Hunger

It occurred to me 
this morning
as I was drying my hair
that you are gone.

The pummeling humidity eases for a minute; the air becomes clear and the sky blue, New York glitters around the edge of your eyes and you forgive it every transgression. The book on your nightstand waxes on about tiring of the city, of finding wide open spaces beyond and never looking back. How smug people can be who wash the city out of their system, who step out of the ashes and carry on like their is no limp in their step. You don't know if you despise or envy them.

I moved the writing desk yesterday. I write now, staring into the wall, words of years past falling over   me as I try force new ones into the world. Some days are light, some days are a little bit harder. But you are still in the fire.

You are not stepping out anytime soon.