you are asleep in the car on a random street in south philly, chair back and soft snore. i move as carefully as i did on the bus two days ago, when the first three-year-old that ever fell asleep on me relied on the hollow spaces in my heart thrumming louder than my discomfort.

you stay asleep under my fluid jerky readjusting movements. three unattractive latino men walk by, and i lay as awkwardly as i can across the central console: my body as close to yours as i can, one arm on your stomach and the other–

the other comes up behind the back of your chair. it rests on fine felt at least 6 inches from your actual back. but i am holding you here, this mess of an embrace. i stay longer than my limbs allow.

each little season has been so different in this city.

this particular little season has involved a lot of yoga (and pushing myself further with it than i ever have in the past) in a studio with wood floors that creak under big pots of plants, mochi, guitars, a big banana republic tote bag, and the guinea pig running more amuck than ever.

there is the acute possibility that i won’t even be here this time next year. next to impossible to imagine, as i have rooted myself so deeply here that i find digits in boroughs i haven’t been in in weeks. i have no doubt that even if i left for a little while, i’d be back.