the idea of it

I don’t want to part with… I’ve been walking this city knowing that you aren’t breathing the same air, and when the admission hit me, I found myself suffocating. It wasn’t the kind of breathlessness that I get when I hear the haunting tones of Bon Iver. It was the kind of inhale that hurts because it’s so cold and the lungs are empty. In sincerity, this is a poem without the breaks and without the pauses, just as this is a lengthy sentence woven to explain in a womanly manner that I want to write a public note telling you to come back and make this city alive again. But I never submit those words because they are not for you, they are for the idea of you that can be translated from one person to another, and they will be transferred when you are out of sight, out of hope. Without reality, these feelings are safeguarded.

the morning alarm

I wake up to the sounds of ruffling, squirrels scrummaging through the trash cans, outside my window. It always sounds like someone has thrown a cat into an empty bin and then let it go wild, the echoing thumps and scratching noises louder than it should be. My friend found a squirrel dragging a crisps bag through the snow once, and another squirrel treating the trash like it was in a ball pit. That’s how I know the sounds are squirrels, and sometimes I see them outside my window, even though the blinds are drawn. I can peek through the blinds but no one can look in, which makes it especially good for changing naked because my shower is too small and humid to try.

And so when the sky lightens up this morning, I hear the squirrels digging through the trash, and I am irritated because it’s too early. They’re so loud this time, and I know it’s because the food is at the bottom. I crawl out of bed to chase them away by tapping at the window like I usually do. As I part the dusty blinds, and they crinkle. I look through, nose also to the glass, and see a homeless man digging unceremoniously through the trash.