Blackbirds

The bar closes. The night's darkest hour, and it allows me to sneak in among the lilac bushes again, I can not help it. The music is loud in my ears as I make my way out with a fresh bunch in my giddy hands, and it is not until I'm back in my apartment with the windows open that I realize the birdsong outside. They are mad with the season--who can blame them? It is light before I go to bed, the sky dove-grey outside the bedroom window and sunrise near. Another work day looms but I try to wish it away. My father sends me links about the death of the Blog and I am deaf to his commentary. But my eyelids grow heavy.

Just book it, she says, and she is right.

It's time to go.

I already miss the mess I leave behind.