a warm august evening on willett street. one of my neighbors asks what i’m reading. before i can answer, his partner tells him, she’s not reading. she’s writing. she’s a poet. i tilt my head as far back as it goes and admire the crooked line against the sky made by roofs of the brownstones and the church on the corner. it is the border between the positive and negative spaces. a metaphor, if ever there were one.
music from across the alley. howard jones from the 80s: no one ever is to blame. at first i think, blech. and wonder why someone would advertise that kind of musical bad taste so loudly. but then, of course, i find myself singing along. you want her. and she wants you.
and so it’s interesting entering new relationships during that process. there are sharp twinges. there are phantom pains (“baggage,” as the kids say). but i’m feeling every one of them and taking in every detail. it sure as hell beats putting my head down and getting by.