Wall

Crocus flowers break through along the river, dotting the tired winter grass with purples and yellows, beaming in the Sunday morning sunshine. I walk eyes closed, face turned toward the sun, breaths deep in my lungs. An entire city lies in wait around me, perpetually moving on, perpetually a step ahead, I stand on the edge and try to decide when I am ready to jump back into its whirlpool. The wind is cold, but the mornings bright, somewhere deep, deep underneath the heavy cloaks of your mental illness, a little sprout begins to wiggle its limbs, the idea that maybe there is life left to live, that maybe, maybe you are the luckiest girl in the world, you forgot to breathe, for years your lungs were shallow, but now, 

but now,

everything you could ever want is still waiting at the end of your fingertips.