You have great veins, he says, and of all the compliments you could look for in life, this hasn't been on top of your list. He fills vial after vial, and you wish you could sleep for days. Perhaps it's the weather. You walk home as the rain abates, considering hope. It has felt out of reach for a long times, but suddenly there's a tingle in your fingertips. You decide to reach a little further. The alternate side parking dance picks up again, but quieter than usual, how many car have left the city for summer pasture already? You lose your inclination to work, sit instead one Avenue B watching the day unfold. hope.
There was a time when all you did was write poetry, was create worlds out of nothing. You haven't dreamed in ages.
Maybe health is how you give yourself love.
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