This one apartment I had in college was tiny and cold.
It was the basement of a house.
Above me lived a slutty Icelandic woman and above her lived a lesbian filmmaker.
The sounds that came from the house were like songs.
I was choosing my days at random then.
Like a spinner.
I had a lot of melancholy in that apartment that year.
I lived on Virgina Woolf and seedy bars.
It's funny because I just didn't know that right around the corner was bliss for me.
I stepped out of that apartment and into adventures like storybooks.
But sometimes when it's cold outside
when I live in houses that have old windows
windows that seem to puff cold air at me
I think about that apartment
or perhaps about that time
And I think of those other women
who breathed in and out in that same space.
And I wonder who they are now.
I have so much space in my mind.
I can't remember anything real.
but I can't forget all the people.