A lonesome walk plaid-skirted and briskly-paced faltered my energy and concluded my self sitting amidst figures of people walking their dogs up and down that sidewalk in front of me.
A little girl being attended by her mom and dad. Was that what I was like when I was her age?
I am not sure what inspired a policeman to roll his wheels past all that concrete to simply ask if I was fine, his blue eyes so wide and true, I thought about having a conversation with him but I thought I'd interrupt his monitering.
Perhaps it was goodwill. Maybe he just got bored of being there. Then he told me. Flustered. Apparently that's what I seemed, making my way across those people having a good time on that darn big patch of grass.
Just earlier C gently pressed his hands on my forehead and reminded I needed a change of expression. A reminder, because each damn heavy step I made walking to make my mother's errand had me harshly vaulting the space that I feel has been running empty. I don't usually know where I'm going, but for once I did and I felt angry that it wasn't for anything important. It suddenly felt like all my work was just made up of careless harvesting that wasn't growing a single damn thing. What the hell was I doing? What have I? I feel sorry for ever trying to hold the moon so thoughtlessly and hopelessly that I forgot about what it truly was.
If it really does look over me and provide for me every night the way it has, not skipping a single night when I fix my sight to it, it's not bad. Really, not bad after all. I halt my stream of fears when I rotate ideas about distance. Shuddering about its existence. I don't want it to fail me. But we all just want. All the time.
I stole two books today from 5th Avenue, then I saw men holding hands across a window dividing them from me.
To C: I'll reach nights where I won't have to look at your sky with your enormity and assurance wrapping its arms around me.
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