I wake in the middle of the night, a steady beeping somewhere in the apartment poking at my subconscious just enough to annoy me out of rest. Fire alarms are always elusive when you need them not to be. After surgical removal of waning batteries, I lay back down and remembered all the things I had forgotten to let worry me through the day. Soft songs of things you used to say swept past me and I tried not to hear them. It's been too long, I said in the newfound silence. You can't come here anymore. It did not help me sleep. I'd like to think my own voice would be enough, but here's the thing: in the vaccum this year has afforded us, the absences have come into stark relief. My voice carries further against the tongue of another. Carrying myself is only useful when I catch another's stumble. It is not enough for me to smile in safe spaces, do you not see I want the Universe in the palm of your hand, do you not see I will not settle for sleepless nights without you?
A rat lay suffering on the sidewalk near Avenue D last night. It did not move as I approached, and I had no relief to offer. An hour later, after the September sun had set and the glass towers of Brooklyn had sparkled in that particular way they do in autum, I returned to find it dead beside a tree. No more, no less. We do the best we can for a short while here on earth, and when we die that is all there is. I wake in the middle of the night and stare at full moons, stare at October rising to a year on fire, we do the best we can.
Only, I think we'd do it better together.
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