Didn’t have heat until day six. Almost hugged the service man when the furnace kicked on and my breath stopped hanging visibly in the air. Ate soup out of the same tupperware bowl (washed and re-washed) on days three, four and five. Walked to the store in the rain and forgot, again, to buy a can opener. Ran out of juice early on day seven (well, that’s today). Went to three shows in four days, sore but smiling. Lost my voice from screaming the words, tears burning at the back of my eyes and this new life pounding it’s fists in the center of my chest.   

This coffee shop is blaring jungle music and both of the baristas are chatting about their studio spaces, something about this punk show or that exhibit, new tattoos and watercolor brushes. I am laughing with the man sitting next to me about the way our knuckles brush when we reach for the napkins, wiping the foam from our lips and he smiles like a secret’s getting told. This morning, waiting for my train, hands rubbing together to ward off the cold, a stranger to my right extended her open umbrella but didn’t even say a single word. 

I speak the language of this city, and there are hidden parts of me opening up by the day, like a new door or at least a new wind coursing this way, quickly, this way.