On the Seasonal Depression of a Fictional Character

I am burnt out
Have you ever seen a flame after it’s gone out?
What a curious thing.
I want to wrap my scarf around my new short hair
and drive to Massachusetts and
fall asleep in the backseat of the car in three minutes flat
and make mint juleps and drink them while we sit on the
porch that the house is falling off of
That house has been haunting my dreams. It’s been too long.
And I want to dance the way my body wants to move,
and sing the way my voice wants to go, which isn’t very far, and maybe I can breathe
and I want to shed my skin and step out into the warm summer wind
and run as fast and far as I can, in circles, through ankle-deep grass
I will be Little Edie with my scarf wrapped around my hair
(or lack thereof, she never told anybody)
and the Beatles will play all the time.
I’m counting down the days until I can put everything into a backpack and a carpet bag and leave everything else behind
and climb onto a jet plane for twelve hours and sleep through the whole thing
and when we finally land I’ll kiss the ground
and I’ll be whisked off by our own personal white van, and I’ll sit in my corner
and fall asleep again while we drive south.
I’ll come home with scarves and sunburn and jetlag and something else,
but I don’t know what it is yet,
and I won’t know what it is then.
Then I’ll sleep during the day:
dream of the mint juleps
dream of the apple trees
and I’ll run through the concrete jungle at night:
remember my bucket of sidewalk chalk
pretend I’m Mercury
swing on telephone wire vines
and then I’ll go to Europe, and listen to the spirits while we all hold each others hands
and I’ll do the whole thing over again
(I don’t want to make any predictions, I don’t want to make any prejudices, I want
to wear my scarf on my head and not be scrutinized for it, I want us all to be friends)
and I’ll come back crying and sunburnt, I’m sure
possibly with something new.
And for a few nights I’ll dream
and then I’ll finally have my mint julep on the porch that the house is falling off of
and I’ll eat tiny, juicy, crunchy apples every day
and drink lots of sun-brewed iced tea
Instead I’ll dream about the lives of the mice and the rabbits and the deer
or maybe I’ll plant some things around the sundial in the garden
or make that teepee I’ve always wanted to put up in the backyard
AND THEN
the leaves will start turning, falling, crumbling, they’ll take me with them, in little pieces, down to 86th and Columbus onto that couch again where I obviously belong, looking at the business cards and looking at my shoes, probably hoping she’ll give me something at least once the leaves are all on the ground, and one day I’ll walk those two blocks and once I get there I’ll probably collapse on the stairs.