Dweller

You wake early again, sunrise flooding the open windows, New York waking up below, anticipation tingling through your synapses. May. 

When the illness recedes, you are as ever left dumbfounded, surprised by what happened, as though an unannounced storm rolled through and buried you, but now only sunshine remains. You think you should be used to it by now and it hurts that you never are. Maybe it's a sign of some remaining humanity within you. You don't want to accept that this might be a life. 

The streets look different without a coating of despair, clearer, cleaner. Your mind resumes its normal gait, words and memories are quicker to hit your lips. The obstacles at your feet are still as high as they were before, only now they don't seem unsurmountable, now it feels like you have the right shoes on, chalk on your fingertips, now you think all you have to do is climb. 

There is no time to mourn what is lost, now, only time to extract every last morsel from the marrow of what is given. It is May now, love, and in May we fly. 

It is May now, love,
and in May,
in May,
we live.