Retrograde

A month comes and leaves in an rain storm, a new moon rises in its wake. They say things will be better now but you think they’ve been pretty good all along, in the grand scheme of things. He writes to say pick a date, I’ll buy the ticket, and you marvel at what a life you’ve built around yourself. She calls you mid cycle at the laundromat and lures you out for a drink, there’s a monsoon flooding the avenue but no matter. She nestled an entire family into your bloodstream by pretending you could get out at any time and now here you are, never wanting to leave. You think perhaps that’s the trick to loving you, and she had it right all along. New York waved noncommittally in your direction and you felt safe to love it completely. She calls August the Sunday of the season, but you are not ready to give up yet, not ready to lull yourself into the long sleep of fall. Google tickets to the ends of the earth.

Wonder who it is you’d like yourself to be.