Making The Bed
When choices we make, make us.
My wanderings feel infinite, for I’ve walked down this corner of Park and Broadway, passing things I’d swore I’d remember should I pass them again, and yet—nothing repeats.
My body is here, a bit black, blue and indigo, but in tact. I long for the moment when a patch of sun acts as a blanket, skin as warmth. In reality I probably need a check and some water. I’ll go on living without, wondering how much longer I might last before——
My lungs tasted bitter when I was forced to eat them.