It felt like a Spring Sunday. The sun returned, people were over-dressed. We walked with our coffees to the train and sweated; I stared straight into the sun. How could I not? The Brooklyn apartment was too bright for our advent celebrations, but we made do with good cheer. Hours later, the sun was setting in the west, and the buildings outside our window were sat aflame.
You give me my story without my asking for it. Suddenly my mind rushes, the pages amass beneath my fingers before I can even react. I appreciate the life. I just wish it didn't have to thrash so loudly within my soul. I wish you would catch me, not push me, when I near the edge.
If only I could figure out which one is the third rail.
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