Bolt

The storm rolls in, envelopes the city in the middle of the night with that eerie sheen storms set in the sky; thick heavy snowflakes fall into the streetlights. By the time we wake for morning, it's all turned to slushy ice galing in all directions come nightfall the streets are merely wet, bare. You pack your bag and how light you seem, that ticket in your back pocket again. To say yes, when asked. And to be able to return home, soon again.

I woke this morning with a terrible sourness in my chest, itching to be displeased, counting pennies and failures in little piles, until it dawned on me, again (again! again! how often must it before it etches itself into your skin and remains?), I am exactly where I should be, doing exactly what I meant to. I burned my arm on the riser, but nothing hurts anymore.