Front

It happens along the expressway, somewhere in the South Bronx: I look over through the gray rainy Sunday and see my city scattered around me, see foggy heavy afternoon light build a soft outline, see the patchwork that makes me breathe better than any person ever could. I sit on the subway, later, one color in a palette of uniques, how it comforts me. I looked at all the things I know, felt them in my heart, thought how distance makes the heart grow fonder and honey, just a few miles, just a few minutes away and I am reminded how I don't recognize my face in the mirror when you are not near, how being in your embrace grounds my shaking steps, every time. I think of leaving leaving, and it's as real as a punchline, it's a cruel joke, it's air. Jay-Z sits on a couch and speaks of creating, and you realize that there's a fire inside you you've taken for granted so you almost thought it wasn't real. It has been dirtied and used and lit with gas so you almost thought you couldn't trust it.

But while you've been busy with disbelief, while you've been busy with fear and sorrow over a love with scuff marks, that little fire has been been burning away steadily, has been warming your chest and lighting your way, and the only reason you haven't followed it properly is because you've let fear cloud it over. It rained today, I know.

It's up to you to clear these skies, though.