Come She Will

The light smells different in the evenings. Dusk lingers for hours on end: the sun, it seems, reluctant to set. I dream vivid dreams of diving in ocean waves, my entire body laughs. The little sprouts on the windowsills turn into long, slender vines and climb ever upward, ever outward, in search of something to hold on to. I wash the windows for them, and suddenly I can see the world clearly. Interpreting the symbolism seems superfluous, again.

Your day came and went, as it does every year. I spent it in the gutters. Oh but it was dark, and cold, and my last breath had run out, like falling just short of the finish line. I never understood why you would give up on such a sunny day, when spring was nigh, when all the troubles of the world were ready to be washed right off our backs but this year, I did. Every last drop of energy in my skin had evaporated, every last ounce of hope abandoned me and my tongue was dry with apathy. This winter has been too long, too relentlessly vicious.

But it ends now. Weary ghosts turn their faces toward the sun, let it wash over them and set fire to their hearts. I rise off my knees, brush off my shoulders. A ticket lies waiting in my inbox. A song lies waiting in my smile.

I breathe.