Thanks Giving

November leaves have fallen. It's just above freezing and only getting colder. It will take months to defrost. But tonight it doesn't matter. Tonight I still feel warm.

I'm holding on to the things that matter. I'm letting the rest float away with the breeze. I am not Atlas. The Earth is not mine to bear. I have the right to be free.

Flowers in the Dark

She's running away from her problems. Every day, for at least two miles. And she knows the elliptical isn't moving, but she can't bear to stand still. So she faces east in the window and she runs.

And there are things she doesn't tell you. Like how she wants to be a singer, but doesn't think she can. And how she doesn't like to sleep alone. And how she doesn't wear a jacket so she can pretend it isn't cold. And how she's afraid to say goodbye.

She wishes that you knew.

She loves the feel of empty and the taste of words as they flow onto a page and how she sometimes sees you smile from the corner of her eye.

You have a beautiful smile.

In the mornings she craves completion and in the evenings a simple dream. Eyes close, but there is no slumber. She reminds herself to live in the moment, breathe in morning and the freshness of new day. Possibility. Wonder.

She's only seventeen.

She needs to learn to be a child again.

Daylight Savings

I watched the clocks lose their bearings, go from progress back to one. The world was quiet. There should have been applause.

I'm pushing people away again. I'm watching from afar. She giggles. She takes his hand. He doesn't let go.

I just want to feel warm.

The winds are blowing and the winter is coming. Brown and tired, the last leaves take their falls. Gravity wins again. I stopped fighting years ago.

Milk and Cookies

I've asked the scholars and the rabbis and the homeless on the streets. I've wandered through gardens, over bridges, past sculptures in the park. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I haven't found it yet.

Midnight fades to early morning. Between the skyline and parking garage, there's always light outside my window. It reminds me that I'm not alone.

New York City, I can hear you breathing. I want to feel you near. It's me and my words again, but I know you're always listening. Late nights become sleepless nights become early mornings. You don't sleep either, though. I think you understand.

New York City, when was the last time you closed your eyes? Did you dream of Autumn's sweet vanilla or of Summer's burning gaze? Did you wake refreshed or feverish? Hot or cold?

Do you ever dream of me?

I want to learn your secrets. I want to traverse your undergrounds and walk across your stones. Pitter against patter. Heel clicks and clatters. Coffee on the run. Silence.

I think you understand.

456

Do they make love

with their words

or with their hands

(ripped,

calloused,

torn with reminders

yet soft to the touch)

bleeding beneath the sheets?

Passion or regret?

He remembers what he lost

and what he has to lose

and for whom he will not fight.

She shudders.

There's a coldness

through the sheets

and he calls it Winter

but she knows

it's someone else.

She knows,

but she knows

that she knows

that she knows

that she knows

that crying does no good.

That she will remember.

He used to call her beautiful.

That she wants to forget.