This is a forced honesty.
What else today but be in my most comfortable nightgown window open and music on and the hot New York air around the room and it’s as if I’ve been lying on this bed for centuries.
The penned-up July anxiety, and death again from unusual and unexpected corners.
What else but remembering and whispering quietly about what I can and cannot offer. Who was supposed to be listening and how that bridge is incomplete.
So long as gravity remains the only force. Because the body is far from a gravitating body.
What else? Supposed to isn’t relevant it’s been true for months. Each new tragedy pales quickly. There is a reason wounds need to heal. There is a problem I have, the way I circle through each historical cut. The sound of a car hitting a tree a block from a house.
(This is when I start to cave but won’t.)
What else am I supposed to do but keep my words and keep myself and when there is a struggle between the two, try to know what to keep. There isn’t a question.
Still, we are children.