I'm writing to you from a public story. People eating grilled chicken,

clink of ice. People I knew. The woman by the window looks

almost like a roommate

I used to drive insane when I lived here.

You, in contrast, are a bank of sleep, a place to think.

Panties hooked on

my ankle.

Per insanity, was that roommate I used to drive insane me?

Or was she actually Camilla? Did I do a good job of thumbing

my nose at Sarah's pride

right before I hit my head? Or was Jen sulking in the hall because

I'm so quiet?

You, joining this broadcast in progress, I have to tell you.

God told me to walk myself down to the phone, and be

happy even if it seems statistically you are impossible.

Remember the art show we saw at the library? The freaky tree

with everything missing but the branches? The suspended leaves

watching a capitol building and thinking God knows what

about privacy? Sky washed in calm robin's egg blue.

We knew the trunk was there.

I'm spending a long time at the table of pies tonight, sorry

I cut my hair.

I'm eyeing some half-eaten, dank and caustic notion of love

I shouldn't have - and neither should you, much like the caffeine

that makes my heart skip beats, or the shot of penicillin

that could kill you.

What we are avoiding is everything. What we are hurtling

towards is the possible. Please keep your hand on my eternity,

as we progress, even if we

can't see tree, not a root to speak of.

Sweet drink, even among all these old friends

turned to half-strangers, I know

somewhere sugar is hiding in water, like you in me.

Cynthia Arrieu-King (OH)  is an echocardiographer and a doctoral student. Her work appears in Diagram, Margie, and Prairie Schooner.