A day off in Winter

Love is like a street block in New York City. Each encounter is unique. Each one features cracks along the way. I've fallen in love with my share of blocks. I've learned how to stroll. I've lingered along the edges, dragging my shoes along the curbside and inhaling mulch or Jameson or popcorn or hundred thread count. I've looped around the corner, looking for an excuse to return. Inevitably, you realize that you can't stay on one block forever. The traffic light flits from maybe to green. You cross the street.


Slow down.

That's what they keep saying. You know who. The people who diagnose your condition of being.

It's what the doctors say when your heart stops working.
It's what mom says when you can't mask the strain in your voice over the phone anymore.
It's what your friends say when your visage borders on transparent.

Stop.

The pedestrian in me is pushing 80mph
I'm making up for the brevity of life by living in high gear.
It's not that I don't see life as an odd assortment of coincidental moments. It's more about making sure that I've collected enough moments before time runs out.
 
Breathe in.

Maybe, if you spin fast enough, you don't have to worry about anyone making your world stop.