By the time it's time to wrap the evening, Brooklyn lies oceans away, the landlocked path of Chelsea like a beacon in its stead. You find a bike on Barrow Street, weave it through the tenth avenue yellow cabs, past the diner where you used to walk the dog, past the Marquee, past the doorman who doesn't know you but doesn't have the guts to admit. The key that isn't yours unlocks doors that aren't either, but you feel at home anywhere you lay your words, you no longer tiptoe in hallowed spaces, and you're not sure yet what that means.
In the late afternoon, they call you with news the kind that breaks your chest and turns your tears into confetti. You realize you've been holding your breath for nearly two weeks and when it releases from your lungs, you have nothing left to hold you up, nothing left to keep you from turning into a soft petal on the floor. You have never been happier about the collapse.
The Chelsea apartment sits quiet in the late night, his absence like a soft reassurance you look for in the empty rooms, you no longer break in fear of the silence. There was a time you'd have given anything to have a key in your hand.
It's hard to accept safety,
when you've learned to rely on the
opposite.
Are you feeling nervous,
are you having fun?
Don't be scared
Don't be shy,
come on in
The water's fine.
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