fugue

six years ago,

i was a pure creative force.

everything was a metaphor.

everything meant something.

i lived every moment,

and then i wrote it all down.

now i just feel out of place

holding a glass of champagne

and trying to make small talk with coworkers.

i drift off mid-conversation

and remember what it's like to feel alive.

laying next to you on the hospital hill slide,

heart beating so loudly

i thought you might be able to hear it through my chest.

the way i felt in the ichiban parking lot

on that crisp october evening,

standing in my yellow linen dress,

when you told me we shouldn't be together.

when we both knew that meant

you loved me back.

i close my eyes as everyone talks about

that patient we had last week who coded three times

and i teleport to the night we laid on the hood of my car

to watch the lyrid meteor shower.

that was the same week we rode our bikes

up to the top of the parking structure

just to watch the orange sun fade over the green hills.

when did it become so hard to feel alive?

how do i articulate that working at the hospital is the

least interesting thing about me?

i could tell them about

my grief and my dreams and my childhood.

somehow that would feel less strange than

listening to them talk about work.

someone asks me if i want another glass of champagne,

and i come back down to earth,

and i say yes.

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