Late nights in a pandemic winter, the piano stands like a steadfast altar, ready when you are to return to it, it does not admonish your absence, does not raise an eyebrow at your failed worship. You sit awkwardly, stumble across the keys and apologize to your previous versions who did this much better, in all your talk of self improvement it's hard to find yourself having walked so steadily backward. I play until the whisky dilutes my ear canals and everything is fuzzy. I sleep soundly, but wake early and already in a sea of unease.
They say a great storm is coming, say New York will be covered in snow, but are we not already under the weather, are we not already 6 feet into the earth, how will this be any different?
Tomorrow, January will be over. Tomorrow I'll be ready to breathe, I swear, just make it till tomorrow and we'll try this again.
No one wrote great poetry at ease.
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