If you want it

The thing is, 
you're allowed to do whatever you want
with your blank pages. 

It's been weeks (months?) since last the ink slipped past your lips, since the electrical impulses of your emotions pinballed against your rib cage and turned into literary curlicues. It seems cruel to be without one's language for so long, to be without the familiar twists of your own tongue, but doesn't it feel like muscle memory when you open the door, doesn't it feel like sinking into a pile of sweaters that carry the scent of an old lover?

I would have traded this muscle memory for your scent,
but you know that
and sweaters don't travel well
across the years. 

The regular bar simmers on a Monday evening,
as it does.
The bartender knows your order though it's been innumerable turns of the dial since last she handed you a drink. This is the mercy of New York City.
It's never so big that it cannot wrap you around its little finger. 

Never so far that it doesn't have a blank page
for you to come home to.