I am winging it in that I have wings but haven’t quite mastered flight.
In my first floor apartment, I find myself airing grievances about something that currently bothers me little but used to matter so much. Outside, the thermometer rises slowly in the shade as though the summer is talking to it.
Its waiting to begin.
It is waiting to begin.
I am a kaleidoscope of miss-charted territories, aimlessly scenic, and frayed at the splinters. The blood on my ankle from a rough step is crusting. The red on my shoe turned brown. Small bursts of hair poke from below my skin line. I am mildly unkempt but clean, biking down lane-less, lawless, city streets. The spring in Chicago, is a forget-me-not. It’s as transient as vacation-met lover.
It waits to end the moment it begins. It wants to give us something better.
At my local watering hole, The bartender’s pink streaks of hair peak out from beneath overhead track lights. My friend goes over our answers half way to her heart’s content.
I am sitting here in my skeleton trying by best not to look rattled. I am faced daily with the choice of not making the same mistakes, but somehow the decision is proving more challenging that it ever out to be. Comfort in crazy is like using a dead carcass to keep you warm at night. It’s a syndrome named for a city, but it occurs everywhere. We walk straight but step in circles- square dancing each other’s sheets.
Until we decide that it’s over, it will always begin again.
My morning tastes like sleepy eyes, but not of last night’s candor. Outside the sun taps on my window. Inside the once heated pikes creak. I stretch my back to crack a bit. I leave my bed in thirds. The decaf coffee bubbles in the pot as my roommate brushes her teeth.
On grills across the city, bacon crackles like the gravel below tires. Beverages of all kinds are being poured in glasses.
In bars, and in apartments, on bikes and our feet, we are waiting to get started.
Within myself, and outside myself, I am waiting to begin again.