A midst groping for the words that will help carry my heaviness, I stop.
I tire of my verse. I grow impatient with my rusty handling of language and so I let my sadness remain inside me. I wait for my belly to shatter. I fling my words loose and let it unravel with the frivolous grace of toothpicks.
I tire of my breakable heart. The world shrugs through the telling of my sad tale —the city pierces with its jewel-cold lights — everyone has troubles, ya’ know.
The storm has pulled the unhurried winter with it. Note the world’s unhappy surprise, a large white cloud has smeared itself across the sky in protest.