Dog Days

The heat, when it hits, is overwhelming. I tumble over my own slow steps up Broadway, disoriented, and forget what I was there to do. The heaviness in my limbs matches the weight in my chest, they keep company all day and don't know quite what to do with each other. There is an emptiness next to them too loud, too there, they can't make up for it on their own. I begin to make bargains, but no one is listening: I have nothing to offer in the trade.

I sat on subway stop in the Bronx yesterday, drawing maps over unknown neighborhoods and coloring the fabric of my love for this city with new shades and riches, every street I get to know whispers a story that I long to tell. It is time for a change, I know it is, this suitcase has turned too heavy and my muscles too comfortable to grow.

(But you never felt like baggage. And I wasn't ready to let you go.)