I’m at a new place,
with new people,
new opportunities.

In a shed, taking a 15,
I sit on a roll of wire.
I’m not fully here today.

The months go by
the days, the hours
I barely feel them anymore
as I zone out
into the open insulation.

My socks are wet from watering.
When should I get up?

Colorful pants walk in.
Distracted eyes sit down.

Long walks
out into the wilderness
I’m not ready for conversation,
too tired today.

sunshine through the blinds
light almost 24/7
a strange time called Summer
-a long drawn out affair
further north than Moscow.

There’s a new black cat
Running around my
Apartment complex,
Where has it been?

My mind murmurs,
As the cat yawns
By the street light,
Distracted, as if it
Know I’m watching.

I turn on
My cigarette from
The filter,
A subtle sacrifice
Slipping through
My fingers,

The cat is no
Longer here.
It’s gone.
The night swallows
It silhouette
In silence.
Maybe it was never
Meant to stay.

I sit a while,
As everything slips,
The smoke,
The silence,
The cat,

Even memories
Have soft edges now,
Faces blur,
The color of eyes,
Smiles and
laughs.

Like breath on a mirror,
Vanishing before the
Night turns old.

Still, I wait a little
Longer just in case
It comes back.

I hope to stand,
a few years from now,
where I once stood
frowning,
growing old
and reliable,
able to walk
on my own two feet
without flinching
at the rot of memory.

I hope the wind
still carries a tune
and maybe the smell
Of jasmine,

And somehow,
some way,
I’ll see my reflection
not just in tinted windows,
or puddles that ripple
with passing cars
but in the steady gaze
of someone kind,
quiet,
willing to stay.

Maybe, just maybe,
I’ll be wise enough
to see myself
in the tired eyes
of a stranger,
or the half smile
of someone I used to be.

And I’ll sit beside him
on a park bench
or a broken curb
Or the bridge above
The high way
Glaring at headlights,
and tell him

everything will be okay.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But okay.

Some days, it’s a hunger
a deep pull from the stomach,
not for food, not for water,
but for something unnamed,
something just out of reach.

It’s in the way the morning air feels electric,
like possibility itself,
how the sun spills over cracked sidewalks,
touching everything,
saying, Look. Be here. Want more.

It’s in the ache of laughter
that lasts too long,
in the way music grips the ribs
and shakes loose something tender.
It’s the way fingers linger
when hands almost meet.

And yes, some days, the hunger fades,
buried under the weight of routine,
but then
a scent, a sound, a sudden rush of memory
and there it is again,
the pull, the ache, the craving
for more of this,
this fragile, fleeting, impossible thing.

This life.

I’ve held them
in my palms,
felt the weight,
watched them ripen
and grow moldy,
forgotten on
the kitchen table.

What a waste
of good lemons
they could be turned
into lemon bars,
or lemonade.

But I never knew
how much sugar,
how much stirring,
how much time
it takes to make
something sweet.

When do I learn
how to
make lemonade?

I hope i get out alive again.

I've done it multiple times,
this isn't a first.

But still,
I hope.