I’m listening to Chavela Vegas and looking at the trees behind the backyard, wondering when the first leaves will yellow up and drop. It won’t be long now. The chairs are growing in the grass and there are shovels against the fence; I keep shaking my head to the Spanish lyrics. I guess this is where some people have that drink, take that first gulp gladly and lean into it like a lover. In some ways, I envy the seemingly easy erasing that takes place with glasses and bottles and booze, the body stretched out next to the record player. I kind of miss insomnia because some lonely moments are so comforting they are the actual company that keeps me, steeps the tea, leaves the bed and will come back to it with me.

I want to watch dancers move their bodies and clutch at my heart because that’s what I do when the movement is so passionate that the music just steps back, kind of like I didn’t sign up for this matter of involvement. I envy ankles and backs and Da Vinci fingers painted in the air. The neck will always arch like a goddess stretching in the sun.

I miss the stage lights making my forehead sweat, and my shirt sticking to my shoulder blades whenever I joust my arms forward—every other stanza flipping off the air with my palms. I miss wondering if the crowd can see the dirt under my fingernails or the freckle on my eyelid. You hear your name called and stand up, go to the front. Give something out. I want to leave drained of whatever I was there to release. I never and always know. It drives me crazy. That’s why I can’t be without it.