i once read that autumn was the springtime of death.
how true. death is lurking, shifting, stretching,
in the browns and the grays… the cold in the soft bones of your feet.
this presence is in all of us. thriving in the long dark hours this time of year.
uncomfortably personal bits tumble out
into a stripped down world in the raw,
where truths are exposed so casually,
it only seems the best of times
to breathe them to life.
when i land my feet in the streets of New York again i’m gonna spread my arms real wide and spin and whisper bitch i missed you…
another coast. another city. the biggest city.
one month later, on the southeast side of the island
in the evening. on the evening, we moved. i moved. again.
he was there, but they thought she was there. it mattered none to me.
i was there.
familiar confusions made finding my way feel the softest kind of new.
a trip to the neighborhood theater only to sit in the back
so that the show was where we were and not on the stage, which i never saw.
we didn’t grow bored but i did.
back to the cement, by now the evening was night.
alone. strolling, wandering, learning lines and grids…
and a maroon lit whiskey bar with its doors open had just closed.
and there he was through the door, just as i’d left him all those years ago.
not a pore on his face had changed, and i knew them all still.
say hellos and wave goodbyes.
i know better than to believe past, present, and future can all exist with each other
you have to have a piece of cake behind this bar. you just have to.
with that smile and that voice that forever melts me under the flames of my own anger.
—eat the cake— chocolate. all wrong. have my manners. walk away.
to see the look of cutting someone else off short. someone who cut me short long ago.
sweeter than the cake.
sweeter still was the knowledge that home was down the block and around the corner.
distance is so relative and so strange and I’m still learning about how it feels.
sweetest of all, or perhaps spiciest, was the thought of the late november evening
enchanted by that maroon light and an oversized wool scarf,
when i would slip back in, and ask him to make me a sazerac.