But Soft

Early mornings in Brooklyn, I spend an entire cup of coffee trying to talk myself out of the effort, I am tired. My to do list grows, unwieldy, it expands into cracks of empty space and laughs at my attempts of early bed times. You can sleep when it is winter. The cup of coffee empties, a manuscript full of post-its beckons in my bag. I walk out the door before the neighborhood wakes; the June air is sweet with jasmine and potential, one day I asked the universe for a chance to fail up and it seems after so much failing, it is at last time for the up. These are gifts I give myself.

I do not have to give them back.