Wake

The morning after rises hesitant, weak in the knees perhaps, but bruised more than anything, wobbly and unsure of its footing. I had so many dreams, but what were they trying to say? What am I trying to say? It's so hard to listen with all this cotton in my ears. It is June now, a still summer rain outside the window, the city holds its breath trying to calculate what is to come. 

I make a cup of coffee, step slowly over the rubble in the living room. Know in the back of my mind the day demands much of me, because I shut the door the day before. I try to tell you I am scared, but the words come out convoluted, come out in poetry, gratifying in creativity, in the tangible amounts of paper they provide. It's street sweeping day again. Did you know I saw this place in my dreams and now it is mine? 

Life is a lot to get through. 

The coffee cools in its oversized mug, the streets remain quiet under the morning rain. You're doing the best you can. 

Keep doing it.