I can't read anymore about the world
without living in it.
I can't think anymore about a life unlived
and still hope to make it another
40.
February doesn't roar in, it sneaks, bright early mornings but a heavy cloud in the margins, it's too tempting to succumb to the darkness, too familiar to lean into the tidal waves, deep breaths of salt water in your lungs, too easy to sink a hundred feet to the bottom.
I go back to bed, bury myself under the covers, pull down the blinds. Remind myself:
In 40 winters
not a one has killed me.
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