Collapsed

There's sand in my lungs. 

I didn't mean for there to be, didn't mean for the days to get so convoluted. The remains of a writing day lie in the gutters around me, wasted, unused, I want a do-over, I demand a recount. But tomorrow is a school day again and there are time sheets to complete. A full moon shines in through the window of the little closet where I work, everyone else lies sleeping and I am glad for the company. 

I miss Avenue B. 

It seems I started a life that was halted by death and despair, I threw it out and hit the road, I ran to the horizon like I always do and I don't blame myself. 

You did what you had to do. 

There are a million lives we didn't live, infite paths we didn't choose. It'll do you know good to think on them now, they are lost to the star worlds, linger in your spine like dust the kind that gets in your eye. 

Like sand the kind that lands in your lungs
and rattles your cough when you were trying to
breathe. 

We lived through a plague and were rewarded with the downfall of an empire. Winter remains, heavier than ever, longer than ever, no wonder we are more gutter than rainfall, more dam than flood. 

Your words are better in agony,
but only if you survive long enough to

write them.