Melt

No matter if Tuesday or Sunday, the words align. A space wide open. Cutting through the invisible edge in the night. They ring loose like lugs on a speeding train. With the celestial tongue playing like a harp in the light gray of the sky, before complete dark consumes. The volume on the radio growing quieter and quieter as the loose sheets on the roof pit and patter and shred through the cold wind like blades. Slicing the tiny peculiar, hand crafted, little snowflakes in half. They are meant to melt away, by design. So then why does it collect?

No matter if Monday or Wednesday, the coffee will taste bleak and her mind will whisper riddles through a tick and I will answer with a tock. Every star is built through careful timely consumption, dreading the fall, the sprint downward to humanity and our silent yet uncovered devotions. Radiohead will play, so will Dylan, so will Mathers, so will Skynyrd, and The Stones, and Al Green and anyone who has ever held on so tight they collapsed the platform beneath them. Creating new hells. New spaces for truth and worship. New lows. New beginnings. So then Bukowski speaks to you now and what happens when he doesn’t. What replaces what. Any table only has so many seats. Who sits here now? Hemingway, Palahniuk, Frankl, Poe, Aurelius, Blake, gospel, and Ill leave a seat open every time.

No matter if Friday or Saturday, collapse feels ever approaching and has never barged in. I hope that even if the ice is too thick and the wind blows through the speed of the train that you stand tall and smile against it. It’s a beautiful thing to lose yourself and find your footing.