Wrist Deep

Against the cold, I set out. I set out against so much more, and remember the voices asking, like ghosts, “Why are you leaving?” As if they didn’t know.

I pressed myself outside today to explore the roads that refuse to accept me, the roads I press myself upon. There is nothing here except everything.

And I know that eventually the everything will become my everything, and likewise my nothing. My nothing, like your nothing. Cold and brisk.

But Union Square was warm today, warm enough to read in. I read and was happy.

Slowly I press myself into this city’s pages.