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.
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.
1 comment:
Canopy of bleached pigeon feathers. That is a rather striking description of grey skies. Nice!
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