Gentle

Two steps forward,
two steps back.
You hope that at least something turns, or twists, or can look different from another angle.
We sat on the factory roof in the late evening, watching Manhattan turn to fire and ice in the waves of twilight, trying to make sense of the world. The bottles were emptying themselves at leisure, and everything had that perfect hum about it like summer evenings are wont to do. We tried to find answers to riddles disguising themselves as dreams, and all the while I tied little pieces of string between my limbs and their, string after string, knot after knot, checking to make sure they held fast. How perfect a moment can be, how kind. I've been crying less, recently, but I wonder if it's just a trick of the lights. My shoulders are turning brown, did you see?

Everything tastes better when you hunger.