Wednesday, January 7, 2015

so gray

I felt a thunderous jolt of displeasure after I asked you to figure out your plan today. It felt like a shell was lifted. That a point was reinforced. But I know you. And I know it must have pricked. And it must have felt like my words pierced through every opening of your skin. It may be a reminder of an impossibility over which I have little to no control. And I sympathize with you. Sincerely.

It is January 7th. Early for a year that ended in mistletoes crystallizing over doorsteps in the Upper West Side. And homeless people shattering in shards as they freeze in the extreme of a cold millenial winter. And the sky looked like a canopy of bleached pigeon feathers. Gray. Lonely. And desolate.

I thought of you.