Dear —,
This is my view from the library. The windows protect me like a ribcage; the books my spine. I am the organs inside, but not the heart. My heart has always been a kite floating unprotected from my body. I’m still un-centered. I think the notion of being centered is a cop-out. Like saying everything happens for a reason. I half believe it. I believe “everything happens.”

Planes fly over downtown. From this distance, I could pluck them like errant petals; scatter the people inside like seeds making more people and seeds; playing God long enough to believe in him, then give back the gross responsibility.

Phoenix is not nearly as loud as I thought. When you left, I felt so invincible I would have put an entire pigeon in my mouth knowing full well whatever disease-infested shit it had gotten into – it couldn’t derail me.

There are no trains today. We never took the train, never noticed the people staring like broken watches. Some ride hoping the tracks will restore lost time. I ride for hours, every day. I’m glad you never noticed my hands suspending, slowing.

Yesterday, a woman smiled at me like it was punched into her. And a man covered himself head to toe in armor made of pop-tops. Maybe the craziest people are the only ones brave enough to be heroes? I could use a cold soda.

Thank you for believing in me, even if it was a lie, even if I’m failing. What’s more beautiful than watching someone leap from her own pyrotechnic life? Maybe that’s why so many people live in a city where 100 days out of the year it’s over 100 degrees? Phoenix is burning, rising. I pick feathers from my mouth.


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