I hang in the kitchen. The view is disappearing from outside, the view I created for myself when I first walked into the apartment, the view that belongs to a stranger. The sun is setting and I am crying on the couch. I am lying there, still, tired. My tears wet the red sheet on the couch. I’ve thrown the empty grocery bags off the couch. I’ve nestled in, so tired that I cry because of it. The view is gone as I look toward the window, the glass dirty with winter stains. I am lying on the couch, and it doesn’t belong to me, but I lie there because I am too tired to go back into my room. Moving makes your legs weak, even before the day. You feel it in the back of your neck, the pain of moving and locking doors, the pain of packing boxes of everything that made your stay memorable. Moving makes your heart sick. It makes you vomit with nervousness and joy, with longing and acceptance.
I would lie still anywhere that has stained my mind with memories of the city, all of which I long to keep within reach. Today, the day is hot and the night is hotter. My room mates and I talk of moving. We know we have little time. We make the best of it. Today, we don’t lie about our pain. Today, we are talking about moving and what it takes, all the energy, all the vigor, all the pain, all the longing to keep staying.
I hang in the kitchen and the view is not the same.