Eleven eleven

A rain falls again, after months of drought it makes itself a habit, the Manhattan streets slick with it. The sun sets so early now, have you noticed? Like it flipped a switch and suddenly everything is dark before dinner. Winter is coming. We spend a warm afternoon on an east village rooftop, rolling our eyes at the youth, and then I have to spend a full Sunday within the four walls of my apartment, scrubbing agony out of the corners with a manic obsession. The darkness waxes and wanes, takes different shapes, waits behind corners to surprise you. 

But you have a few new tricks yourself now. Your back a little more limber, you do cartwheels around the illnesses. Not well, but at least you are not constantly drowning like once you were. 

At least the air still reaches your lungs.