I’ve stopped expecting everything and anything. And the sound of a car door is just a car door. It’s getting nice again and it feels right for me to be alone. For years now, your going has coincided with the season change. And if I am hot and sweat soaked, I am alone. I think it impossible to quantify the impact of someone else on your life. We have no Richter scale for bones and heart beats and tightened ligaments.
Sometimes I start a sentence with, It’s easy. But it’s not. Nothing is easy. And if I were asking someone else they would tell me it’s good. They would tell me no one ever got anything from something that was easy. Easy is easy and that’s nothing.
At night I walk to the park and avoid certain streets and keep my head down. And at night I walk in the middle of the street home from her house. Someday soon when I am no longer here I will write about how the moon lights up the center of the street and it felt as if I were the only person in the entire world. And that I was completely okay with that.
I am trying so hard to commit these scenes to memory: my front yard, the stoplight at 8th, the feeling of my attic in the morning, the breeze off the river before class, a slow buzz in the basement of 10th street, the sound of my roommates bare feet on the wood floors downstairs, the season change and nothing being easy.