Would you like to stay longer than May? they write into the ether, just as you are musing about how you have fallen in love with the creak of the wood floors, the light in the windows. You turn a corner to find the boxed up remains of your life on sixth street, letting them spill into the corridor and picking among the jewels for little wafts of magic to bring upstairs. Spring feels just out of reach still, and though you know it will appear, you write them that you do not know yet what May will do to your bloodstream.
Back in the apartment, you revel at a moment's peace, at a moment when no one is trying to reach their hands through your walls. You wonder what it means that you don't want their hands right now, but it is too soon yet to say, too soon yet to worry. Daylight Savings ends tomorrow, you know how it sparks in you like promises, know how it twists your ear drums until you hear music on the breeze. What could I possibly tell them about May before feeling that?
I go to sleep in a stranger's bed,
but the sovers are all mine.
It's too soon yet to know what that means.
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