anything to start writing again, even the strains of dylan shivering over the small, animal sound of two very quiet sobs. there is the earthy smell of some vegan concoction hitting a frying pan, there is the small mound of my possessions, the only ones, in the corner of the low-ceilinged room. they shoulder up against the wall, not wanting to occupy an impolite amount of space. when he is gone I sit in the very middle of the bed, and it feels smaller. maybe we are like goldfish, and we only stretch as big as the space our loved one allows us. maybe we don’t remember much. maybe we exist in little orange shimmers and shivery ripples.
there are kitchen sounds, there are no city sounds. in this way, brooklyn is peaceful.
but in a few days i will be back padding through the streets of paris, streets i know.
nowhere feels like home yet.
