Upsell

My arm aches. I have stopped looking for the mouse, he will appear if he will, I leave my fate in his hands. We drink two bottles of wine in the rambly parts of the West Village, the world may be crumbling but it never didn't need unconditional friendships. I bike home drunk, but not so drunk that I don't feel the cool air on my face, not so drunk that at every intersection I don't look up and down the avenues to feel the monuments of New York City burst in my chest. 

People have stopped asking about my writing. Poetry lies in piles around my desk, it's a fine home for any rodent if you think about it. I used to think about the immensity of life and now I only ever seem to think of its restrictions. My mother has her last visit to the hospital, they celebrate her with balloons when she goes, it's hard to wrap one's head around it. Is something coming out of this year with joy? These questions are all too scattered, these words like post-its on the floor, my nephew walks in to his kindergarten class and we are never so aware of the years passing as when the childrn grow. Best, perhaps, not to have any then. 

My arm aches. I feel the ceasefire tenuous in my limbs, the stillness vibrating like a fine wire under tension, like I must grasp this tender moment before it is too late but I am frozen still.

You know those dreams where the ghosts are chasing you, and you try to run but move nowhere, your muscles burning and your chest like a weight?

Yeah.