The bathtub fills slowly, but steadily, inches upon inches, crawling up the side. You step in when it's just past your ankles, but the edge of the bathtub reaches past your shoulders, it's the deepest bath you've ever had in New York, the luxury is not lost on. You pull the curtains from their windows, desperate to drag sunlight into the dark Brooklyn nook where your suitcase currently rests. It's been seven months now of your trinkets in storage, of your life on wheels, and you have no desire to step off the moving train just yet.
You wonder how to explain that to someone who hasn't bought a ticket in decades.
You wonder how to explain that the West still whispers to you, that your nights are spent dreaming of winding roads and air the kind that expands in your lungs with the altitude, how your nights are spent staring into a starscape that defies belief, how your words yearn themselves to freedom, how they spurn against conformity, the straight and narrow.
It occurs to me that these words have brought me too far, for me to let them wither now.
Occurs to me that the stars have already spoken,
and whether to follow them or not was never a question that needed answering.
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