The fifty miles chasming us rears its annual head.
Wind breach. Rain kissed knees
through the tear in your window screen.

You are sipping hot chocolate
on the Metro and I am a tragicomedy
in your kitchen; sink of broken, bloodied glass
and Zoloft before the serotonin kicks in.

I am not afraid of what it means to be alone.
For once, I am the star of my own sadness.

I read your business textbooks
and underline the economic downturns;
enamored with the desperation of your split lip
between my teeth before you bought my ticket.

The sidewalk hasn’t seen me in weeks,
but you’ll be back
                         (bull faith in a bear market)
with pictures, a sun lamp, and affability
as currency. I’d exchange you for a billboard sign.

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Zoe Antoine-Paul was born on the Island of Saint Lucia, but now calls Brooklyn home. She likes writing about the city, the beauty in the mundane and macabre, and everyday internal turmoil. Her work has been published in Funicular Magazine, Scapegoat Review, West Trade Review where she served as a reader, and other publications. Zoe can be found on Instagram @space.junkie13.