TGIF.

I just get sad when I read your words, he said. I had nothing to retort. Another man looked me straight in the eyes and reminded me the dirt, the grime, the nothing-left-to-lose were what I had wanted; I've abandoned them whole. I'd gladly take sad words. The clean, clear silence is so unbearable in comparison.

A lone orphan lives in the Paris gare, and wasn't everything more beautiful so many decades ago, all steel locomotives and small-tabled bistros? How I miss Paris in the Spring, how I miss a good ticket to somewhere. Do you remember that summer in Spain? We didn't know a word of Spanish; I never wanted to leave.

I wept when I told him your story. I always weep. If I were half the person I pretend, I'd be by your side and never leave. You'd have no fears; I would carry them all. Instead we are oceans apart; my tears do you no good.

These words... They do no one any good.

Forgive me.

Brief

Another beer will solve everything. Staying in that dark corner, that sweet song, that sense of knowing how many steps will take you to the bar, to the street for a smoke, it will solve everything. You relish in the moment that you know, it carries you.

Tomorrow the bell will ring, you will need clean clothes, a smile to put on your face. That's fine. You have seen worse.

Worse has seen you.

Cut Your Hair

Stay another month, he said, maybe stay much longer. He closed the door with visions of spring time drinks and pleasant conversation, the apartment felt more like mine than any one has in ages.

I spent the afternoon, camera in tow, being reminded why I loved that and why I let myself be an unemployed bum. Yesterday those children laughed when I came in, they made my heart leap. Tomorrow I go to my Real Job, entertain the feeling of being a proper adult with my shit together.

The problem isn't not knowing what to do, it's wanting to do too much.

That doesn't seem like a problem, at all.

Moonshine

It's almost full now, every day another inch swelled, it shines a little brighter. This apartment is dark, the trail of the sun somehow evades the kitchen window, it's a shame, really, but still. At night there is always that beam. On the walk home, steady, reliable.

I sat at the table, staring up at its moody shadows, its crisp contours. Reflection of sunlight. Generations of questioning faces looking to yours for answers. How silent your response.

A million seeds of hatred grow in me, the sun's warm rays do nothing to appease them, only gloss them over, attempt distraction, that's fine. The moon does not look away, does not pretend not to see nor encourages the wild tangles of angry fruit. It stays steady, swells by the inch, watches coolly.

Holds my hand.

On My Sleeve.

Night before the first day of school, the end of soft warm grass underneath your dirty feet, the end of greeting dawn before going to sleep, of life without restraint. Order restored, schedules in ink and always knowing what's around the bend.

Stability has snuck up on you, you are not unaware. Little steps toward the expected, toward the straight and wide, they are so happy for you because it makes sense to them, there's a label for that box. You thought there'd be more kicking and screaming.

I miss New York. This town is dragging me down, it extinguishes my fire, I get too tired to fight. I see normalcy creep up, like a soft lullaby, like ether, how comfortable to rest in its hypothermic blanket, I am too tired to fight. There was another me, once, do you remember? Can you see her?

I go to bed early, set my alarm. My demons sleep soundly. Their job is being done for them.

Warming House

But if I got a good job offer in New York, I'd go back in a heartbeat, he'd said. Ten years of Stockholm and the depths of his heart still beat for that city, that island. I relished the company, but feared the same future. This city will never be my home, as that one is.

But my heels clicked, clacked, all the way up the street, the same street as always, how straight, how reassuring the incline at the end, and I think that come spring it will be the perfect location. Weigh your pros, your cons, drink your wine. Your smiles will seem genuine enough, if you make them.

Nada

Well we can't go here again for a while. Early in the evening, what a neighborhood joint, what everybody-knows-your-name potential and later you get kicked out for being too drunk. Harrison Ford sits at the other end of the bar but is married. Accents mix and mingle, can't find their way home even when trying. You tried to keep it together but failed, bricks fall apart at the corner of fail and failure, how close your home. The phone rings halfway up the hill, you melt in its soft voice comfort, let it carry you home.

The blood courses drunkenly through your veins. It is black now, but you know the light has returned. You know it will wake you tomorrow.

How all will be better, in the morning.