An icy rain smatters across the windowsills, each drop landing like nails on the surface. Of course it hurts for buds to burst. You cling to promises of spring but wake in anxiety and you don't know why. I dreamed you were near, and now you are not. Perhaps that is why. Perhaps love is why we ache, and is why we hesitate. He writes to say, don't come to England, it's to hard being poor here, and you wonder if he knows what it is to be poor in New York. Lateral moves, you think, and wonder what the point is to any of it.
The bartender brings you snacks, buys you a beer, leaves you alone to your work.
Of course it hurts for buds to burst. That's why you hesitate.
Until you don't.
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