a march of mourning.
they carry the names in cloth,
the weight of what has been done.
downtown tries to pretend it’s still normal.
but we are past normal.
this is not protest.
this is a procession for the dead.
l’art existe.
tucked between brutalist lines and fluorescent shadows.
not a declaration—
a reminder.
of what survives the structure.
of what glows anyway.
even in institutions.
especially in ruins.
i haven’t been back to italian class.
not really a decision—more like a slow unthreading.
at first i missed one, then two.
a message half-drafted. a reminder snoozed.
now it’s just a tab i don’t open.
i think of them sometimes, conjugating without me.
the schwa still soft in my mouth.
still mine, even if unused.
there was no rupture. no reason.
just me, always a little too tired, a little too elsewhere.
it’s not shame. not quite guilt either.
just the shape of absence when you let it stay.
i’ve left so many places like this.
no goodbye, no explanation.
not because it didn’t matter, but because it did—and i couldn’t hold it all.
the leaving isn’t loud.
it’s slow. partial. unfinished.
like language.
like me.
stood there teaching, not to perform,
but to remember.
to speak of what refuses extraction.
to name what pulses under erasure.
black keffiyeh against the chest,
kiki futures on the screen.
the room knew.
not everything had to be said.
some things shimmered between us.
the conference ended.
or maybe it didn’t.
people lingered like the performance was still going.
hallway laughter.
cups half-full.
a woman nodding too hard at nothing.
i had asked my question.
black faces in every slide,
but no data that spoke to us.
just placement.
just image.
the speaker deflected.
clean. soft.
the room let it happen.
i stepped outside.
cold air, wet pavement,
nothing sticking.
then he said it.
ben énervé, hein?
like anger was the problem.
like clarity was a disruption.
like i wasn’t still there.
i found him.
calm. exact.
you don’t get to narrate my presence.
he laughed.
i didn’t.
i walked home with the cold in my hands.
still here.
still mine.