This Way

She sits in the cold Midwest and thinks perhaps this is the end -- not of the road, but of their road together. Why is there no right answer? she says and you know you haven't one to give her. She speaks of art like a lover, like a calling, and once that fire has burned in your house there is not room for his underwear, his books, his dreams of your life together, it only smears ashes along the walls.

I fear my heart beats too violently lately. I fear it smothers and extinguishes, it drowns and distorts. I know my eyes are shifty; they fall off to the sides because I am afraid if they look straight you'll see the smoke and mirrors. They cry at the slightest touch, it's not me doing it, winter is an ocean and everything drowns. I don't mean to forget your name but there's a bubble around my head and I can't hear your feeling. Today I ran along the river and for a short moment in the sunlight I remembered what it was like to be alive, what it's like when little greens sprout from the ground and your skin is warm, your lungs full, I knew I'd felt it before and imagined I might feel it again. Count every good day: it is one day closer to a time when you won't need to.