the swing makes a sound i know well.

i push her back and forth. june's small legs kick at the air each time she comes forward. she tells me higher and i oblige.

she found a dry maple leaf near the bench. she passes it back to me on a downswing. i fold it once and put it in my coat pocket with the others.

her laugh is the only thing happening.

my labor is an abstraction that funds this room. i am the patron saint of the unanswered text.

the situationship's liquidation haunts the open tabs of my mind. i asked for an equity stake in her life and the market crashed. now i perform my daily office. i scroll with liturgical precision, a monk turning the pages of an infinite manuscript.

i see a video of a family on vacation. i catalog it as an artifact from a prior economy.

my longing gets processed into content. the raw material of sadness is refined into a sharp observation for my private channels. they respond with curated reaction gifs. this is our form of fellowship.

my austerity is the constant performance of detachment. my cell is this chair. my prayer is the refresh button. my sainthood is this sustained, perfect solitude.

the radiator clanked.
my phone showed engagement photos from fort wayne.
new builds, patchy sod.
that hollow ache. detached.

i opened the laptop. "untitled document."
the cursor blinked.
patagonia vests in that tribeca bar.
shouts over the pacers game, spilled ipas.
the l train into marcy ave.
that guy, phone propped on his knee.
pixelated maps of africa.
british voiceover about resource extraction.

my studio felt like a poorly lit stage.
half-eaten utz chips on the ikea table.
i typed "chapter one" and deleted it.
downstairs neighbors arguing, muffled rhythm.
more houses. more rings.
the distance was tactile.
those guys absorbed by the scoreboard.
i closed the laptop. the radiator hissed.