Yours Now

Monday evening on 5th street, later than in the before times, but then isn't everything later now, slower somehow, not as successfully urgent. Your car is parked next to the writing bar, all the little joys gathered like family; if only they knew what we had gone through, if only they knew. 

 We barely know, ourselves. 

The bar smells of old beer on wood floors, of illicit cigarettes. The bartender is new, we regulars introduce ourselves, welcome her to a space that isn't ours but feels like it. The neighborhood blog says it's Manhattanhenge, you get all your relevant news from an old, cobbled Blogger template now, the rest of the world is too much to see. If only we knew. I fear every creative urge has died in me, that every imaginative whim has curled back into itself and hardened, forgetting what it is to dream, or delight, or discover something entirely unexpected. 

The second I sit down, far from the demands of my inbox, my fears fade to the sidelines. Little sprouts of hope make their way out of my heart, twist and climb toward the light, tender tendrils adhering to the inside of my skin as they grow, carrying new stories on their backs, carrying questions that demand answers. I am tired now, more tired than I maybe ever have been, but when the tendrils make their way into the light, you do not turn them down, you do not look the other way. 

We are coming out of the darkness, I just know it. 

We will make our way into the light.