tonight i dreamt of a house.
an old victorian home.
with a four-footed tub on the top floor.
a large white four-footed tub filled with warm, clean water.
in which to dive. to soak. to clean. to cry.
to cry, really.
yes, tonight i dreamt of a large victorian home with a four-footed tub in which to cry.
because i need to cry. but cannot.
on the walk home from the subway.
in the cold, wet city air. i tried.
with each return to new york the question of what am i returning to becomes harder to answer.
(certainly not any kind of tub i'd choose to fall apart in).
and the thing is, the silence on the other end of that question is a certain kind of death.