Winter floods in through the open window, you forgot to close it after he walked out the door, forgot to warm yourself when your skin was left bare, you walk the dog along the river and she sleeps for the rest of the morning, it is winter.
Somewhere, bits of poetry lie floating in your inseam, somewhere the magic of a holiday season streams past your subconscious, somewhere there is music if only you had the time to grab it, if only you had the wits to unearth yourself above the surface of an oil slick on the ocean. Time is running out, the white rabbit says, what will you make of what little you have? The dog looks at you like she hasn't been fed in months, like she hasn't seen the light of day and you think, same, and take you both out for another walk.
You don't have to have the answers yet.
You only have to keep walking towards them.
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