Days pass, flow, tumble and turn, we turn the clocks like we can will spring to come but I wake with the weight back on my chest, like an uninvited guest I cannot scrape off the underside of the table. The weight tells me to stay put, tells me I don't really know how to breathe even though I thought I did, tells me everything I ever disliked about my place in the world is, in fact, true, and everyone else is just too nice to admit it.
I fall asleep late and wake while it is still dark, convinced the turning clocks have made me late. Instead it is black of night, the brief breath when avenue B lies silent, a Nor'easter dragging its heavy limbs across the Hudson River. I have strange dreams where you kiss me but it isn't you, it isn't right, I know it's all poison on that side of your lips, by the time it was morning I had slept too late and the weight was firmly planted on my brow.
The therapist says to acknowledge the good things the disease brings with it, to find gratitude in its swells. I click my tongue in response. The decades I have spent sifting the darkness for poetry, late nights in solitude mining my blood for the slightest sign of light. I'm starting to think the chips I take home don't add up.
I'm starting to think the house always wins.
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