Popcorn

Late nights across the river, your head swims in easy cocktails and hard truths. How when one door closes, so many others do too, and it’s a strange thing to try to pry one open. I’m still here, you tell them, and it’s like the answer is a gift. This morning I got lost in the park in Brooklyn, a dozen times I ran into the woods and let myself lose track of the world, across the street everything blooms, I laughed at cherry blossoms and didn’t care to hide it. We just don’t want to let you go, they say, and you don’t know what the answer is. Life is messy with its shades of grey, with its sticky emotions plastered across rational thought. But it is all we have to go on.

This map makes sense. Sometimes you just have to turn it around
to see it.