I pull up winter, from bed,
The air conditioner walks beyond quilts.
March has arrived,
While three souls share one dwelling,
It’s the third year // in New York City,
For me.
As I lift the third cup // of morning tea,
Beside my mouth,
Honey sweetens the pages in my hands.

Performance,
as the third party, // an observer of the world.
Giving up happiness, // for just three coins,
And trading them // for a sliver of chocolate cake.
I wander hesitantly, // unable to cross thresholds,
yet trying once more,
Drawn into swirling patterns // etched across the sealed cover,
Which whispers another tale of eternal youth,
The third chapter of three.

Through three failed worlds past,
As the Mayans foretold.
Once again, we dismissed // the third world's endless prophecy,
Suspended in this third state // between past and present,
Was the arduous path merely // to discover... three?
My watch shows three marks quickly passing,
Fifteen minutes still to wait,
In the laundry room.

Three washes,
To sustain one month.
You, three weeks, my three years.