Make Believe

Old music sifts into your conscious, memories of sleeping on tour buses, on crying in embraces that you thought would last forever but which crumbled shortly after. As much as you’ve ached in this life, have you not burned more? Have you not raced into the night in a giggle? I think when the time comes to tally, the answer will be yes. I hold on to that idea, like my best defense against January, whenever it decides to strike. You’re too happy, you hear yourself whisper. Winter hasn’t even begun to dig its claws in. 

The bar is calm when you arrive, late afternoon quiet, but a din builds while you sink into the manuscript at your fingertips. There’s a comfort in routine, too. The thing about tour buses is there’s routine in rolling stones, too. There’s predictability in madness, calm in fire. A new year arrives.

You recognize yourself, all the same.