Loft

The bar is perfect on Mondays, quiet and dark. It weaves tales along your fingertips, the piles of paper amass at your side, as the glass empties in tandem. The bartender is new but everything else is old enough to make amends. The words toss and turn between elation and despair, my heart weeps and giggles in one breath, how is there sunshine in my chest while still everything hurts?

Oh but such is life. We do as best we can with the cards we've been given. Just because you wish they looked different, doesn't mean you can't be curious about the ones you have.

When I leave the bar in the early evening, dusk still lingers above the tenements. Unused words tumble out of my coat pockets, follow me home, skip into the avenues. We have far to go.

But at least, at last, we're walking.