Nowadays, there are just the sounds of elevator bells, footfalls on the pavement, and car engines idling in the parking lot.
As I slip out of your door, the church bells peal for Friday Mass at the Catholic Church down the street. I softly shut the door behind me.
I remember asking you who you loved most in the whole world, but I never got a straight answer. It's all just gesturing, I suppose.
If you'd have asked me, I would've said my brother, knowing I had to leave him behind for the city. The city that slipped me underneath its tongue, and let me dissolve.
Nowadays, I draw scalding baths in the evenings to wash the smog out of my hair, and I wake up when the sunlight is still blue.
I used to sleep in, brew coffee, and read all day on the patio.
Now, I get up to beat the traffic and eat cucumber and water cress sandwiches in quiet cafeterias.
Nowadays, I go to house parties with my new friends who I know you'd hate.
I study on weekdays and drink and dance and laugh on weekends.
I wonder if happiness is just in the getting by.
