Been a hell of a week. 

I woke up this morning wanting some peace, wanting some quiet, wanting some light. So I headed to one of my favorite spots in the city, the Harold Washington Library's Winter Garden. 

I was here a little before 9 and waited outside with the usual diverse group for the doors to open. I had my pick of tables, and am now firmly entrenched to get some work done. 

Harold Washington Library has the same feel, to me, as a place of worship. There is a stillness here. A stillness not broken by the photo shoot happening to my left, or the security officer talking to the handyman behind me, or the couple admiring the artwork to my right. In fact, the stillness is enhanced by it.

This library is reminder of why public spaces need to be welcoming to everyone, and that everyone deserves the dignity of knowledge, and have the respect of being treated equally. 

Whenever I need to know such places still exist, I make my way here. 

Never have I ever
loved with the simplicity of fresh toast.
Never drank so quick the ice didn’t have a chance to melt
as whiskey pooled and caressed throat.
Never sang too loud
in a car too fast
as rain came down
fast to blind a road
all too familiar.
Never have I ever
hated anyone enough to sell family heirlooms handed
down, soft jade caressed— by faceless hands.
Never fought off jealous bees for honey fresh and warm.
Never have I railed at the world as the sun moved behind clouds.
Never have I ever lusted over another’s hands at hammer and nail.
Never saw a need to devein cold shrimp
until my fingers bleed.
 
Never felt the lack.
And yet even though I never wanted anyone enough to wear
tall shiny shoes, they still wait lonely in my closet.
​Odd sentinels for all that has not been done.