Gabriel sits on a concrete stairwell
in Cobble Hill reading a newspaper.
He is an illusion to my illusionist mind.
I've painted a memory of him.
I haven't seen him since early July.
In my new state of mind,
in my new city, my new home
my new smells and people and steps to be taken
and shivers to be shaken from fear and excitement
I yearn for the familiarity of Gabriel.
I walk to Carroll Gardens wiping the visions of Gabriel
off my soul like crumbs from my shirt.
I will see him again, I am sure.
But how beautiful would it be to have a little piece of home
so far from home.

Owning a young brain.
You march a chaotic, desultory life sometimes.
It won't happen to you.
A caregiver ages. She has wrinkles now.
You didn't notice, did you?
You see her too often to notice the changes.
It won't happen to you.
She has a disease, she tells you.
You didn't see that one coming, did you?
Your own life was at the forefront of your young brain.
It was distracting you this whole time.
But now. Now you are sick with the thought.
The unimaginable thought...

...but don't worry.
It won't happen to you.

Do you remember how cold that winter was?
I did not own a winter coat that year.
I spent the snowy months
wrapped in Walden’s grey sweatshirt
that was three sizes too large.
The tall girl and I
would drive to the waterfalls
and chain smoke in my car.
We’d sit in silence,
the nuclei in our brains
eating the songs from Iceland.
The words were nonsensical
to our English ears.
We did not understand them.
But oh, God, did we feel.
We yearned with them and cried with them.
We felt their same lonesome
and wanted to tell them
that they were not alone.
That beautiful girl
would tell me I was her only true friend.
I’d light a cigarette for her
and tell her I’d never leave.
I wonder what the lady I’ve become
would say to the girl I was then.
”You left,” perhaps is what I’d say.
I wonder how she would respond.

The very first time I had ever had my coffee black
was because I was just being polite.
A man wanted to brew me coffee.
I sat at his table with the candle I gave him
and it was the only light in the room.
He brought me a cup, and told me
he had no cream or sugar.
What was I to do? He brewed it specifically for me.
I didn’t speak. I choked down the black sludge.
He talked of his travels and his photographs of sequoias.
We shared a cigarette
and he rubbed olive oil in my hands.
I grew tired and decided to depart
and I thanked him for his hospitality.
I have not put cream or sugar in my coffee since.

Half-lidded and weary under self-inflicted lines.
I only ever noticed these lines when you were thinking.
Deep in a painting of neutrons in your mind.
It was a painting I never held the brush for.
I was terrified of mis-spellings or untied shoes while I was near you.
I wanted so badly to touch you.
So, so badly. You were paper.
But glass and freedom was I.
I was free.
The android-dense streets of the city.
So silent. So singular.
We listened to Paul Simon on repeat.
We’d start in separate chairs across the room from each other,
then journey to the floor, and I’d sleep in your soul.
The album would end, and you’d quietly start it again
without disturbing my dreaming and shallow breathing.
I remember it well...
Those monsters were frightened away
when you’d cradle my face and rub my cheek.
I’d sleep to your heartbeat, a lullabye.
Fists banging on a cellar door.
Desperate fists. They wanted so badly to escape.
To be free. Freedom.
The vain streets of the city.
The ending of his album, and no longer repeated.

He brushed my cheek one day
and said, “Let’s go to Alaska!”
We sailed to Alaska one summer
when the sun never slept.
But I slept close to him each night
in a tiny box on the ship.
The waves rocked and cradled
and my body moved with the waves
and with him.
We climbed a mountain
and found ourselves standing in a cloud.
“It’s alright. Just follow me."
We found shelter at the top.
We shared clean water and citrus
and he embraced me.
I never wanted to depart Alaska.
I had him to hold and know.
And I made peace with God.
His eyes looked different that day.
Determined and paler.
He knew more that day
than he had the day before.
Perhaps he had made peace with God, too.

I was writing a song in 3/4 time.
One, two, three. One, two, three...
And my mind couldn’t dance far from
the Biblical verses that were read to me earlier.
I sat on the wood floor of my bedroom
in my under garments alone.
I chain smoked and my head met the floor in anger.
Repetitive and purposeful self harm
for my mind couldn’t produce words
that truly depicted the flame on my brain.
I stepped outside for a walk in the moonlight.
The street was clear, but grey snow grew from the sidewalk.
I found Gabriel with the moon on his back,
standing on his rooftop, reciting Thoreau
and crying...
I looked up and watched,
the orchestra pit violinist watching the show from her chair.
I wanted to clap and weep with Gabriel,
but I dared not disrupt him.
He wiped his eyes and flung the moisture into the cold air.
I swear I could feel a drop fall on my head...
I watched puffs of warm air leaving his mouth
and his hair clung to his neck.
He cried softly. His shoulders quivered.
And in the moment, Gabriel,
the liturgist, the playwright, the angel,
had left.