Garbage line the gutter with casual melodrama. You are standing beside the only lamp post in the block, between the intersections of the apartment buildings where you used to live. You’ve been here twice in the last month, spying on that window that hasn’t been illuminated for the past three.
You continue to sell yourself the idea that everything – this walking along the streets at five in the morning, this lighting a cigarette at the break of dawn, being not in your neck of the woods, strolling a mile down south to spy on a window – is part of your healing; that everything is going to be alright.
You slide your arm around your shoulders, as if this simple gesture of tapping your own skin will make you less worrisome of your own sanity. This is alright, is the scheme you are oh so willing to buy for this silent, hysterical nonsense.
But it’s too late for anything. Right now, you are taking a step back to retrace the pavement you know you will retrace (once again) the next morning it rains.