The day before I get laid off I feel it in my middle like a windy lake

RIP corporate spoon

I lick the door of every building I’ve lived in NYC. None of them open. My Manhattan blood pulses. It’s the day before I get laid off.

I write:

Years spread on my tongue, space layered with time and there’s self and self and self looping and there and here, peering through the window— I’m leaking on the couch, the pictures are different, red wine spills, then I’m standing. It’s 2024 and my foot’s on the first stair. There’s a wind inside my middle, wiggling lake of past and future, water jostling, what’s going to happen, beginnings, (it’d be so fun if you were here, (let’s go to the bar and giggle, (your soft arms, little sips, (indulgence by the teaspoon,—))))