I woke up late, too late, a dream lingering on my brow of bags that refused to be packed and the melancholy pull of departure. I had sat by an unfamiliar piano with Regina and ignored the changing tides, I wonder what it meant. I don't want to go anywhere. Later, by the river, my muscles were mute and refused to lift, I hallucinated stories of people jumping off roofs, it's that time of year again you know, it will pass, it will always pass it's just today I'm tired, just today. She sends pictures from a mountainous north, says maybe I live here now, you look in your medicine cabinet for a flashlight to keep the darkness at bay, every day follows the next: this is life. You've been given the option to leave, before. Your bags remain unpacked.
It's all right.
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