Tumbling Down

The snow keeps falling. Soft, slow whisps at which it is impossible to get angry. The hangover holds a firm grip on my warm limbs, my clouded mind. In the wake, my heart is too exposed; I cannot trust my pale winter skin to hold it in, keep it safe. I leave little bits of my self around the city; the gloves left at one party and the scarf at another. The answer harder to locate. I postpone any further words until the remains have been collected, swept up, put back together. Until the skin thickens and resolve plants itself firmly again in my spine.

In my head, I see M in her car, in the little community that smothers its spirits. I see her cranking up Beyoncé, pulling on the parking break, and spinning endless loops in the white parking lot of her hometown's train station. In such a small scene, I feel all that angst, and also all that freedom. Last night it only snowed under the street lights, and darkness and light replaced each other a hundred times before I was home.

But still, on my pillow, golden hair spray glitters.


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