for Nothing

Return to fifth street, reclaim the seat I have made mine at the back of the bar only to find a deep crack in the window above it. Arctic gales rush in. The bartender with the right playlist is back, and I settle in to the din of New York City, to the soothing comfort that is its companionship. An old manuscript opens itself in my lap, weaves stories a decade in the making, sings songs of an entire lifetime and I feel at home in the knowledge that I am exactly where I should be. Because when I said I’d sacrifice every other happiness if only I could write, I knew what I was doing. You didn’t think I did, I wasn’t so sure myself, but you see there are fireworks in my chest today just bursting to get out, but you see we passed a turn of phrase earlier so sweet it could make you cry, and I think if I could spend a lifetime in this far corner of this nondescript bar telling stories into the world I won’t mind so much the fraying of my clothes, the wild of my hair, the madness in my eye. I think if I can’t have the other happinesses anyway, I might as well burn straight into meaning
like this.