All afternoon, you are tired. In the early evening, you sit in the deep bathtub and wonder if it's too early for bed. You long for it like a long-lost lover.
But come midnight, your eyes are wide open, your mind a pin clear state of perception. Thoughts and questions align themselves, wait their turn, shuffle through your awareness like it's their day of reckoning. He gives you a key, tells you to come by anytime, to stay here, to make yourself comfortable and anyway it's closer to the hospital than your Bushwick sublet. When you tell him you are not yet ready for an apartment the kind you'd put your furniture in, his voice is sad in how he asks you why.
You realize the parts of you that do not fit the mold used to make you sad, too, used to make you think something was broken within you. Now you caress their soft edges, hold your oddities to the light and whisper how much you love them, that they not shy away from building strength in their prisms of color.
Sometimes what we think is broken
is simply who we are.
You take his key,
but you sleep at your own place,
tonight.
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