Breaking the silence open with my teeth, I chew on my tongue while trying to breathe. It isn’t always this way, but sometimes. Sometimes. Writing is a complicated beast, you wrestle with him. You try to seduce him. Just when you think you’ve pinned him by the wrists, he’s got you by the throat. The truth is I must like the threat. I get a rush from the danger of coming close enough to myself to move in for a kiss.
Walking along the highway, I watch my footing on the concrete curb as high above the clouds are rippled tightly together, layered thick as powder white and blue tectonic plates across the broad expanse, as far off in the distance as I can see. My onyx tights are thick enough to keep my legs warm despite the chill in the air.
It is winter inside my body. It is any given day of the week in the sanitized hallways underneath my skin. My boots are heavy and I could use a drink. And though they are saying otherwise, I could swear it looks and feels and smells like snow.
You remember that feeling when you were a little kid? Snow was a feeling you got in the pit of your tiny stomach. You could sense the icy crystals melting on your tongue before the first flake ever descended. Snow was a taste for something magic to come.
Winding my way around the track which encircles a full sized baseball field, I light up a cigarette as I pass the bench they built as a shrine for a local boy who died of an overdose. There are fresh flowers by the small tree they planted right next to the bench. On the front of the clay flower pot is some sort of small woodland animal announcing the joys of spring. Butterflies and angel wings. Demons and nightmares and all the ways some of us never find a way out of the pain. I wonder what his dreams were and if any ever came true. I wonder if the ones that didn’t still exist somewhere out there, waiting on an autumn wind in a far off place, for their turn, for their chance.
I wish I could say I know exactly how to change my life so I could die with no regrets.
The cluster of evergreens by the tennis court must be a hundred years old, shaggy towering pines. In my mind there are ghosts. In my hands there are lines that cut off at the edges. A heart full of stories that beg to be told. It is too early for sunset, the days are too long for my melancholy taste. I’d rather the dark move in all around. Watch as the softness in the gunmetal clouds turns slowly to black.