Submissions

She writes from the other coast. Saves me the weather report, the pleasant way the breeze lingers in the palm trees, as I navigate lingering snow piles from a morning storm. April has never looked so bleak; we are all made fools.

She says the furniture arrives Friday, but she moves in Thursday.  It'll be empty, clean, new. I'll be sleeping in a metaphorical place of potential. There is a magic in first nights in new places. White walls onto which to project your dreams of a new life. Empty cupboards without the weight of an old one in them yet. Bare bones and the freedom in simplicity. I walked home itching to slash and burn the innards of my little room, let the tidal wave in to wash away the debris. So fresh, so clean.

Spring doesn't arrive on its own. We have to earn it. Create the flood, paint your potential.

When I wake tomorrow, I will the sun to shine. And I will not give up until it does.