Bud

Rainy mornings, clouds like a lid on the world, streets empty in silent anticipation. There's a short window in which to gather your thoughts, watch the cherry blossoms wriggle their way into existence. He asks are you coming out West? and you try again to remember what it is to see a future on the horizon. The life spirals so slowly towards its seemingly inevitable hellfire, you think perhaps you could just step off and wonder why you don't. 

But at the back of your spine, near the darkest depths of your rib cage, the tiniest glimmer of gold dust stirs itself into existence again. It whispers of fantastical dreams and a life spent in wonder. It reminds you of deep breaths in your lungs and breaths held in anticipation. Reminds you that along the star trail of darkness lies also bursts of light. 

It's been so long now since anything appeared bathed in hope, you almost forget to turn it over in your hands when it does. The gold dust twists itself into a little whirl in your chest, tries to catch the morsels of starlight when it reaches the depths. 

Tries to turn itself
into a whole damn storm.