Days in and out, you never write, there is too much electricity in the air. The apartment turns into a maelstrom of upended boxes from the recesses of your little shoebox. The moving company asks if you have furniture, and when you describe it they deftly reduce the quote. I drive across the Brooklyn Bridge laughing, because isn't this the most beautiful place to call home? Find old typewriter scribbles among the boxes, saying I was homeless once, but leaving New York now is only travel, is only adventure, because since I became yours, I never sleep a night without knowing where I belong.
Everything feels easy when the demons step off the gas, when their races through the bottoms of the sludge wash away into distant memories, when the chest is no longer weighed down by a hundred pounds of lead. You make a note to remember this when they return.
That thing
where life feels unbearable
is not the truth
The illness gets loud sometimes
but now is the time to be
Louder.
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