You break up. Tell the woman with the listening face that this isn't right, tell the man with the seeking hands that your body is not the treasure he is looking for, you clean your slates and sweep your stoop. He asks to spend the winter, asks to find warmth from the cold, and you remind yourself your promises to avoid the as if when it comes. It always comes. You pack your bags, not in the way you used to, with the getaway car rumbling in the street and you with the gas tank spilling behind you as you go. No, this is intentional, this is reprieve, New York don't you know this time I'm making it stick, we have nothing to fear. I smile at new ears on the screen, reach my trembling hands toward new fingertips. I do not set fires any more, but I believe I can still keep myself warm through this strange, unending winter. One day I will reach for that quiet, vulnerable spot at the nape of your neck, and you will laugh and tell me stories to keep me awake while the miles move from under us. We will be in the getaway car together, just you wait.
Good things come
to those who do.
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