I Know From Here The Lights Look Pretty

Sharpen your teeth, he said. Your dreams are more than worth defending.

To My Head

A day full of bookkeeping, numbers float around and cold sweats constantly break out around my trembling nerves. Addition was never my strong suit.

And yet, by the end of the night, the red wine bottle half drunk, the calmed nerves likewise, how the future still appears in the distance with promises of brighter futures and that thing you meant to be doing. It can still be done.

I can't stay here, she says, and you know what she means. The world lies there, waiting. It isn't going anywhere.

But you will.

But you will.

Fresh Starts

And if you caught
this disaster,
I'll point you home.

Odd how it's only been a week; it feels like years since you were here. You returned so quickly to your old world in the new world, your life that carries on there as though nothing had changed. Life is funny that way. It moves, whether you do or not.

We reveled in the late dusk, in the throngs of people, in the scents of spring. Glad to have one moment, just the two of us, just like it was. She paid for dinner; some things never change.

And at one point in the evening, she looked me straight in the eyes and said, If you know what it is you want, you do it. You do it, and the rest works out. The rest always works out, because it has to. But you have to do it. She has such bright, round eyes, they pierce deep into your veins even when you didn't expect them to, you thought you had your guard up but you were caught completely unawares. Her words went straight into my blood stream. I knew she was right, of course she was right. And I loved her for it.

A week later, walls reerected, the obvious falters, emotion hides away, the sea is calm. Dead. Reality will eat you alive.

But only if you let it.

Perhaps.

Is this what life is, then? No more than an incessant roller coaster of elation and despair? Of hopeful futures with inspired madness crushed by harsh office lighting and nine to five subway traffic? Of constant, constant apathy over having given up?

For so long, I declared it must not be so. I fought the forces around me, as they shook their heads and waited patiently for me to grow up. Is that what it is? That I simply held on to childish notions of what our lives are for much longer than others, painting my naive delusions in creative shimmers to fit my rationale? That at last it is time to give that up, cut my hair, start a pension plan?

My soul shrivels like a raisin. Lies in my chest shaking. Refuses to believe the tale that paints itself before our eyes.

Is that all there is?

Struck II

Call me. We went and got her out of there. A short note, a busy night at the bar, weren't we just saying how everyone is going through so much and here's that. I stepped into the street, held tightly to my phone, the miles between us were excrutiating.

I called her later, on my way home, and had to stop at the little park at the top of the hill, froze my fingers on the curb as we both cried helpless tears into each end of the phoneline. I had to go. I know it's not him. I had to go. A home smashed to pieces, glass strewn across the life that fell apart. The babies are safe, the remains of a family carried away and my heart swelled endlessly that there were people around to carry them. Unbearable obstacles, unimaginable pains, still her voice came down the line and spoke words I didn't know she had. Family is more than who is in your blood.

Hearts will weather this storm,
as well.

Please

When.

Feel This Real

It was a mistake, I should have known, I knew. You open a door, the wind will catch it, blow it wide open, you haven't nearly the strength to sneak just a peek. Memories, long buried in the panic of departure, seep through your rigid defenses and prick your every nerve. It was too hard to go, you simply forgot you had ever been anywhere else.

Years ago, New York City beamed like a jewel on the unattainable horizon. It was a place I would never reach and a life I would never live. But somehow, fates smiled upon me and took me there, gave me a West Village street and a Manhattan soundtrack, gave me days and nights and a place where I could finally recognize my own face in the mirror. That city let me bleed all over its concrete and steel, gathered me up when the night grew too long, carried me home, and kept my body warm another day. I trusted New York like nowhere else and, in return for its safe walls, sang it endless praise and showered it with adoration.

The end came too quick. Adventures beckoned, May itched with change, I don't know what happened. New York stood quietly by and let it. Its veins run quick, I was soon washed out of its system. My veins run slow, my memory, though kept from the light, keeps every trace, every whispered smile.

And the truth is
I don't know who I am
without you.