The night before the storm is quiet, calm. I bike home along the west side and watch the Hudson River lie still in anticipation, all black glass against the lights of New Jersey. It's cold. When the snow comes, it is strange, like something you knew once but which left you long ago, something familiar in your bones but foreign still. Late at night, children come out to kick around in the streets. No one does any work on a snow day in the year 2020, we've lost all sense of time and reason, rhyme and season, what I'm trying to say is we've lost our minds, the snow turns to drops of ice against the window pane and these old tenement buildings haven't seen proper heat in a hundred years, the risers just crack with one deep breath of steam in the night, my body can commiserate. It's dark so early now I forget the day is over, midnight rolls in over my wide open eyelids and guilts me into rolling over. Do you remember when you were still there to roll over to?
I don't.
It's strange, now, how foreign. Your skin against mine is just a crack in my bones.
And every storm passes, eventually.
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