december 30th
The old filling station, shattered shingles and cracked concrete. Waiting with bated breath; a word that doesn’t come, a silence that always does. Hands shake with the bone-cold blows of snow - my fingers touch my wrists. A sting of ice. Your lips part - a hit of winter chill, still no getting used to. The sun begs for a dance, time wisps by, marigolds ponder an appropriate appearance. I don’t know what to tell them, the same questions beckon. Are the answers too slick for you too? I try to grasp them - brisk, biting, but they tear my skin with shards of glass. Predetermination handles itself lightly, we come and we go. A smoldering star carries us where we’re meant to be.
