Leap Day

Wednesday night at the opera and it reminds you; the special shadow that leaps across the garments, the sound of orchestras tuning through ambient buzz, that moment when you realize you were somewhere else completely and it only happens like that here.

The moment you are reminded there are other things you are meant to be doing.

Spring ran rampant through the parks today, spread across icy grass and pale skins, tickled long dormant limbs into dance. There will be snow again, there will be ice across the waters and it will seem as though this early sunshine was all in vain; hope is desperately frail in the beginning.

But as I walk, long strides across the island, my blood leaps, and skips, and courses quicker every minute. I forget to sleep. I remember to laugh, great big laughs from deep in my belly effervesce through my body. It is divine.

The city is beautiful at twilight. High heels clicked across cobble stone streets. It will be alright.

In Tune

Do you know, there was a moment today, when it was late afternoon but the sun was still bright, when I thought it'd be cold but the breeze had a warmth to it that hasn't passed through these grids in ages and the birds sang just so, that I forgot all my troubles.

I remembered them later, of course, over a sink full of dishes, but no matter.

Something stirs within, flutters, prepares to break free.

Something magic.

What You Need

Sweaty, crowded dancefloor, no movement voluntary but an effect of the swaying nearby. Crowd surfing like it's the nineties and it makes you laugh, it rebuilds your hope. The line was too long, a miracle snuck you through, you are on the other side of the waters and still the town seems so small, the crimes so innocent.

You build a new life here, with people of old. There is comfort in familiarity, confusion in geography. You do not mind. The bed is twice as full tonight and you adore the voices around you, the morning ahead. You gave him, perhaps, the wrong number, but there is no telling until later and now you can but laugh, and laugh, and remember to get off at the right subway stop.

The morning will still be february, and cold, and maybe snowy, but this night is all sparkles and power ballads and rose petals, ironically but still. This night is sparkles. You cannot ask for more.

Dirty Shoulders

Of course you dreamed too big, too beautiful. Of course you set your sights on the impossible.

Of course, you crashed, and burned, and drowned.

But if you did not dream, you would have never gotten on that plane to New York, all those years ago. If you did not dream, you would never have traveled all those miles, to all those places, met all those people. If you did not dream, what word would have been yours, at all?

I brush myself off, carry on.

What else is there to do?

Voluntary Insomnia.

But the rain will wash the snow away.

Forward. Fast.

It rained all weekend; cold, icy February rain and it broke your heart with every slam against the window. But when you stepped out this morning, the rains had washed the snow away, the streets lay barren--thick with gravel, but barren. It was light before you were even out of bed. Spring is not impossibly far away, after all.

I saw a picture of your house today, the view from your rooftop, all summer sunshine and lush green trees. The hesitation in my chest was but slight, I laughed and dared to hope for the impossible. You do not know yet how good we would be together. You do not know how much I would love your view and your streets; I would cherish them. I hope you can hear it, when I tell you.

It was light when I walked home from work today, too. I don't think I needed that hat pulled down so far. There was life left in me, and hope, and giggles. Spring is not impossibly far away. Life, is just around the corner.

Thumbs Held.

You had words, and ideas, lined up for miles. Had hours to yourself and no one to interrupt your restless meanderings, your impatient heart.

And then the inbox rang with the slightest tremor of potential, with just a morsel of hope, and your words stop dead in their tracks, quivering, unsure where to go.

I must bide my time now, wait for answers beyond my control, hold my tongue. I count the minutes, remind myself of realities, forgive myself the wasted words.

The puzzle pieces will fit, eventually. The picture may not look as you had planned. But it was never painting that was what you do. And the words will be waiting, till you've found them a home to grow.