The woman sits down next to you, smells of a life without showers, mumbles quietly to herself in a language you do not understand. She brushes dirt off her pants, it falls into the bags around her. You could’ve stayed, in a different life perhaps you would have stayed, but you wanted the gentle rocking of a subway train after midnight, wanted that slow moment of quiet with your city, put words to wordless breaths. The train rolls in, leaves the woman at the station, her mask diligently on. She stares at the ground.
He touches your collarbone and you think some bones will always be broken even after they heal. He asks about a wink in your eye and you wonder if the caverns carved into your chest will remain dark and unknowable forever.
The mouse has returned, scampered across the kitchen counter when I caught it unawares. The Empire State beams its translucent light down to the streets. I bike the last of the way home, cool summer breeze in my hair and all the noise silent around me, 12th street like a secret.
You could stay
You should stay
How long will you hold your breath?
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