Roach

The mouse appears and reappears, becomes a fixture in the apartment without uttering a sound. We name him after the super who will never bother him. Cold mornings turn into spring at the turn of a dime, flowers burst from dead earth and frowns peel from faces at the speed of jackets falling off backs. We drink margaritas like we used to but nothing is the same; it passes across our eyes but there’s no point in mentioning it. What would you do with the words if spoken?

You spend a day at the top of the world, Manhattan at your feet and all of America spreading out beyond. Sit in the window with the sun in your face and connect the dots of the island, the streets that look so insignificant from above but that amount to all you know of life. There’s a slight stir in your chest.

It’s too soon to say when it may thaw.

Had a Few

He writes from India, sends pictures and feigns humility. You ask about the road conditions in Rome and pretend right back. Various trips lie scattered right ahead of you and you hide under the covers with your guitar, I forget to cry but remember to beat my fists into a pulp, it evens out. Spring lies in wait, just underneath the surface it gains strength, it tears at your attention but you are busy losing your appetite over unsurprising news. This isn't how I meant for you to find out. He says he's reading Kerouac and wants to pick strawberries for a life; you smile in recognition but outside your window it is frigid and gray, you fear the blossoms will never come.

I don't want to run, now, I don't want the world to take me away and scatter my spirit into the air, I just want to sit at this typewriter and bleed, I want to close the doors, the windows, the noise around that only serves to distract me, I want to fight the only battle worth the wounds, I tried pretending normalcy and humanity and how easy it is but how useless, no you can have this body, this matter, just let me sit at that desk and pour, let me burn burn burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, I opened the good book to remember and seventy dollars fell out, I believe life is trying to tell me something. I'll listen now, I promise.

I am ready.

and Honor

Friday night on the west side and while you forget how to maneuver a body, it finds its way home without you. Turn left on Leroy, right on Fourth, walk all the way to the neon fish sign and fall into bed with your clothes on. Text your farewells without spell check, warily.

Tomorrow it will all look different. But home always looks the same in your sleep.

Mince

Thursday morning and the fire department climbs your stairs, weary fire fighters stomping around your kitchen and seeming superfluous. You stand in your stained hoody and sleep-drunk eyes, trying to assess danger. Is this the moment I blow up and all the things that used to matter no longer do? They leave within the minute, and you live to see another day. Count your pennies, again, again, do you think the numbers will come out different if only you do it enough times? Refresh the search for airfare; wonder, is this what it means to be delusional?

But you feel saner than you have in years, calmer, relieved of the air in your lungs and the tickle in your temples. No matter the outcome, somehow it will all come up roses. The air is frigid but the sun shines like spring. There's a mouse in the kitchen, she writes in despair. You giggle and buy traps on the way home.

Nothing scares you, anymore.

Scare

Your sea legs wear off, get used to the same view outside the window. Rummage through cupboards full of food it seems years since you bought, look at yourself in the mirror and see someone only vaguely familiar. The plants revive, eventually. You look at maps of other worlds and wonder what'll come of them. Look at words of other times and wonder if this is when you step up to bat. Count your pennies in terror, but a note in your pocket reminds you you are doing exactly what you said you would, and how strange it is to be happy. Norooz rolls past you in a giddy feast, the equinox tilts in your favor and, as it does ever year, erases the dark clouds of an entire season in your heart. You set up alerts from a botanical garden's cherry bloom watch and grow impatient for whatever is to come. When this storm finishes pummeling you, when the Fates have grown tired of their games and leave you out to pasture for a bit, when the grass grows green again and the world is yours for the taking, where will you start?

There is a film shoot outside your apartment. The view changes, even as you are looking.

Grand

Gray sleet on gray streets, we roll across the Verrazano-narrows and crawl into Manhattan on a Saturday afternoon to little fanfare. The grand old music hall smells of beer and bleach, the floor is sticky. Early in the set an amp blows, there is minor chaos and major cheer, the audience sings along with reverence. I stand at the back of the room trying to remember every turn, the way the drum vibrates in your chest, the happy spirals in your head. The after party is all giggles and clearing days of unspent riders, I take the L train back to the island with bags full of crackers and beer. Forget my keys (forget to need them to begin with) and have to call my roommates to be let in. My room is as I left it: a cup of coffee sprouts new life, a plant barely hangs on to its old one. Everything is quiet, nothing moves. New York knows you need the space and retreats to ambient noises.

You love it that much more for it.

Kodachrome

Preserve the memories 
They're all that's left you 

The building is a hundred years of farmers markets and railway storage in the bricks; in the slow songs the high beams hum with the hush of the crowds. After the show the line to tell your story is hours long, it wraps around the coat check and the exit into the next bar. We just got married today and we wanted to come. They sing along to every song and you have perpetual tears in the corners of your eyes, just waiting for the final straw when you can no longer hold it in. The bass player yells her joy madly in the green room after. The singer has another beer and says I am happy. You crawl into your cot and realize it may be the last time. Vow to sleep the perfect sleep but your blood is on fire and you think you may never be tired again. Lie staring into the darkness.

Lie wanting for nothing.