You don’t necessarily believe everything your memory says when it describes five years passing like nothing. Each night piles on top of another like smoke down a sewer drain, not wanting to seep away. Rising back to the boots and bile, curling around an ankle, a wrist. Though, certainly, they must hold a truth if they end with you here.

Neverending Nights

Because you were once five years old. Because you once also believed in disappearing acts. And miracles. And the Fool’s Journey. Because you fell for it. Because a blinking light at the center of town is goodbye. And a gas station means you have a long way to go. Because home is the first Hell. A dirt road. A big car going nowhere. Because it’s your right to be left. Because every scenario ends with you on a sidewalk. And every night begins with why.

Blood Nights

Because you kissed the girl who left blood confetti in the snow. Because you can’t hate her for it. Because mouth to mouth feels like resuscitation. IV drip bag and marred cuticles. Because the iron-tang tastes like the other side of a trapdoor. The street numbers turn to letters turn to wasted postage. Think of the red on your bottom lip as a souvenir, an I wish you were here.

White Nights

Because you’re trying not to slip into the Hudson and freeze over like New Year's Eve. Because she’s not coming to look for you. (You really messed up this time.) Because two right turns means you’re lost. Because three means you’ve accepted it. There’s so much water on this island, this body in a river. It wants to escape. You keep walking. Because all rain runs down. All roads lead to home. Haven’t you found it?

Blood Nights II

Because they never invite you to the drag races on Bedford. Because you have to smell the tires anyway. Because one night a grey Ferrari Spider flies past you, and you, tequila drunk thinking do or die, want to fly too. The sidewalk in South Brooklyn pulls up and down with every house. It’s not flat like the paved road. You pedal anyway. Because you wait for the crash. You want the crash, you always have. The handlebars smash. The bumper melts like angels in the snow. The palms reach out. The tarmac kisses you like it wants you here. You don’t feel it, but you almost can. You consider the nowhere.

Buried Nights

Because you’d hug a landmine if you could. Because Lincoln Tunnel is only empty when something’s wrong. Because congestion is just another word for sick. Because the trash gets pulled out onto the street. Because even the flies won’t touch you. Because this is falling. Because they’ve made Hell liveable, and doesn’t that mean loveable? Because you swallow stones thinking you’ll be full and complete and whole. Because you want to believe this is all right.

Neverending Nights II

Because you’ve been flown through the branches on a white lifestring and you’re hanging over the powerlines missing the ground. Because your knees buckle in the summer. Blisters and bruises and knots. Because nobody walks you back anymore. Nobody leaves the light on in the basement. Because 4AM means 7AM. Because this is the end of the track. Because the Q takes you to the ocean if you let it. If you miss it. If you allow yourself to be missed. I’ll remember you just like this: flittering through the air like fumes, like wind, like light. I don't have to promise. It always turns out this way.

White Nights II

Because your soles are worn from dragging them. You stopped wearing Buffalo platforms because of her. You haven’t seen the floor since 2021. Because the birches look up. And the skyscrapers look up. So, this will too. Because it’s your mood ring. Your mirage. Your cabin in the woods. Because you’re on the sidewalk again. With the black plastic bags that disappear come morning. Thinning out television static. Record scratch. Because belonging is impossible, and it was a waste, and it was only ever going to be a waste. Because you’re looking for a third option. Rewind the tape. Stop. There. Stop. The best thing you can be is wrong. Because you’re trying not to go back home.

Blood Nights III

Because the one thing you know how to do is stay. Hold on. Pull the heel of your shoe up. Send your text. Lose your keys in the gutter. Climb through the window. Out of a car. Out of a hole in the earth. Because, this, you have to see for yourself. Because every midnight strike sounds like revenge and every train delay sounds like revelation. Because you’ve loved her since ninth grade. You skipped rocks and dog-eared books over it. This con act, this scam, this tripwire. Because you’re not done falling. You’re not done falling.