the sum of most

Somewhere, outside on this quiet street, someone can here my Miles Davis being played.
He does Gershwin so well.
Or maybe I just like Gershwin and Miles so much.

Somewhere, inside this house, the cats are tucking themselves in for the night, and an unfinished scarf that needs my attention sits next to a stack of bills that will have to wait until we get back.

Somewhere, inside this body things are changing.
My shape is shrinking. I can feel it with my own hands, but my eyes still only see that same girl.
She's everywhere; my closets and drawers are haunted by her.
She's is all I've ever known.

Somewhere, inside this mind
I am sorting issues into neat and tidy piles.
I'm sure I'll trip over them sometime tonight, around 3 am.

Somewhere, in my heart, cracks are closing, windows are opening
And resentment and regret are being handed their hats.
Suddenly I can breathe, again.

Sometimes lists are good.
Sometimes I actually follow them.

Sometimes they help.