Spela Shoreline

While you were listening, the voice says, were there any aspects of this talk you found particularly compelling? I come to, having heard none of the words that came before this. My mind is a thousand miles away, my mind is a dozen months away, my mind is lost I was hoping someone might find it but the flyers got soggy in the snow and no one could find a number to call. My roommate takes a mental health day, looks out at me from under the covers with a conference call on mute and pleads to be put out of her misery. I bring her coffee and no relief. The couple across the street have sex, winter dusk turning their brightly lit window into a showcase, into a holiday display behind lazy drifts of snow flurries, I try to write poetry but am constantly interrupted by the bobbing behind the blank sheet of paper. Her pale breasts, his unruly afro. Later, finished, or at least perhaps satisfied, I see their hands waving in the air for some post-coital conversation or other. See my own muted reflection in the window. Seven point six billion people are, at this very instant, living lives in which they are the main character, it blows you away. How life is precious, and beautiful,  and kind, and cruel, and above all short enough that you owe it to yourself to make every second count. One floor down, a man sits alone on his couch, in a messy room, looking at his phone. I fear if I do not tell all the stories inside of me I will explode, or -worse - deflate like a forgotten balloon in the corner of a birthday party.

All this to say, I forgot to say thank you
but not a second went by when I forgot to
feel
it.