Silent

Days pass in quiet mumbles, in averted eyes and failed restarts. An anniversary of 15 years in this city passes in sweet recollection; New York holds my hand as everything tumbles around us. Years ago I made deals with the devil, and the irony is not lost on me how he comes to cash in. 

I dreamed we kissed, surprised kisses out of years of wreckage. Don't worry, I know dreams get convoluted, don't worry; I know we have settled on never being so happy. I sleep with my window open and wake before dawn, cold air dancing over my naked limbs like taunts about the coming of fall. This year will be different, I etch into my skin with a dull pen, perpetually misunderstood teenager trying to will my voice into existence, still unsure if the years ever are different when I try to make them. Pandemics can still sweep in over the best intentions. It's when you try to please everybody that you lose track of what to believe. It's been 20 years since the towers fell and you don't feel a day over ancient.

It's okay. We'll wake soon, can pretend we won the war and all we have to do
is climb out of the rubble
and then we'll see the light.