hostage

Late January, certain nights may feel like Gethsemane. A short wait and the warming knowledge of absolute solitude. Christ knows sooner or later everyone carries their crosses on their phones. In the city, streets are silent, absent their usual traffic. A woman I once worked with passes by. I wave hello. She flagrantly ignores me. Lost luggage springs to mind. Speed of rotation in each footstep having nothing to do with memory. Names move out of bounds with such polite coordination. And all I find to cut are tramlines. The problem with Facebook is everyone knows where to look for you. Take a hostage. Lines from Virginia Woolf on the beauty of literature. What do we leave here that reads as so important? Mood. Nights in January taken hostage. Her body pressed into me leaning against the Temple of all Gods. Chasing mystery, one prays simply by remembering.