six, thirteen

I am out of practice; out of breath. The words don’t come easily. I have to call for them, like for a scared stray cat. It used to be that it would all disappear. I’d turn away from myself. But instead, I just need to let it come to me and be quick about catching the right moment. A little bit like a perfectly chilled glass of wine. Tender gyoza for dinner, two nights in a row. Lebanese for lunch, again. I remain faithful to my habits even though I know there is so much more out there. I’ve made a list of neighborhoods in Prague I want to explore, revisit. It’s been far too long. I wish I loved this city the way I love all the others. The rain and gloom have slowed me down. The last few days, perhaps even weeks, have been quiet. Unusually so.