For lack of words

19. She's been wrapping her tongue around that number, waiting for it to melt or unfurl. Nineteen. It tastes something like kalua out of a rusted flask. It vibrates through her fingertips like a Jacobin reaction to generations of matriarchs. 19. She toasts away its education, with gratitude, and turns a new leaf in her book of recollection. Let autumn iron out the old sheets.

She shook hands with a stranger today on the corner of 114th and Broadway. He commented on her thoughts as she read his grin and let him fumble numbers into a phone. She watched him walk away with his briefcase and wondered if he'd ever walk barefoot through morningside. She decided to touch toe to pavement on her way to work. She doesn't think she'll pick up if he calls.

She's been having trouble speaking. There's something about the way that sound sits on air that makes insecurity tangible. She'll do what she always does. She'll leave love in pen scratches.

And stop counting time .