Sticks

I'll dream each night of some version of you, but the secret is I actually mean me. There was a time when I'd run down Brooklyn avenues in a giggle, was a time when I'd marvel at the Manhattan skyline until it shook in my chest, but I feel nothing now, I stare at trees made blurry by emerging buds until I am blind but I feel nothing. It's too far, too impossible, I am a thousand layers of cotton inside the pale skin of March, something in the back of my mind says I was happy once but I cannot imagine now the shape of happiness and I forget to try. Flip through decades of March, see the same incredulous despair. See it change with the weeks. Wonder if I can wish for the same miracle another year. On 6th street, I find a penny on the ground but it is face down, I do not take it. The Universe scoffs at my pleas. Like a fool I keep trying. 

Think,
We have far to go.
But at least, at last, we're walking.