By the time I got to New York...

Disillusioned.
I think that was the word I used.
This concept of the real
and Sartre’s transcendental I –
something about how I can just rise above the singular inner-body human experience.
This was my best friend’s idea
of changing my emotional address.

I think the most staggering thing
the worst feeling
is the solitary.
That moment where you realize –
while sifting through your music collection
and all those books upon your overloaded shelf
and all those television shows that people say
rotted. your. brain.
since you were too young to conceptualize time –
that none of these scoops in the river
have yielded a precious gem of experience
to decorate your radically pierced heart with.

I still get my mail.
Because moving didn’t really mean leaving.