by the Fruit

I walked past your writing bar and you weren't there, she writes, as you turn the corner for the home stretch to reach it. You run into each other with a giggle, minute New York moments like a wink across the avenues. Lap it up. I scribble in my notebook, it is coming, and it's been so long since I believed it. Stare at a blank piece of paper entirely unafraid, because the horizon is only possibility, the unwritten can be anything, how much is a used car in Kansas? There used to be a time when you spent your days trying to find out. 

So you drag out your canvases again, drag out your pills and potions and rays of sunlight, try to mix whatever sparks you remember how to find in a cauldron of all your tricks, drink your medicine, try to drown yourself in it, somewhere in here there is a magical formula, somewhere in here is the secret to making new york love you, making you love anything at all, creating flower buds out of the ashes you carry in your closed fists, there was a time you resigned yourself to stay under the cover and not figure out how to do more than breathe, but it turns out life is unbearable when you aren't living it. The future will arrive at your doorstep no matter the ashes that pile along the other side of it.

The unwritten can be anything,
the only thing it can't be is nothing.