Please, Please, Please

Just before morning, just before she's fully awake, and also when the spot on the bed next to her is cold and empty, she curls under the covers and lets her mind fly. She thinks of cities. Not towns, not villages, not suburban wastelands--no. Cities.

Skyscrapers that tickle bloated clouds, playing with the blue of the sky. Neighborhoods with menial little parks and singular trees. Sidewalks. Benches. Galleries. It makes her want to bite her cuticles to a pulp. Cities seem so big and scary and crowded and lonely.



She misses Chicago. It's odd how, in her mind, a city can at once be a place of new beginnings and romantic notions, and at the blink of an eye, a dwelling for only heartache and lonely existences. Paradox, paradox. She doesn't dream anymore, but rather frets until her stomach knots.