The Random Glorious Melancholy

            Of
course.
            The
fireworks shoot straight up toward the sky and almost reach it. Almost.
            Sure.
            The
moon bends and hangs and swings when you’re not looking straight at it.
            Yes.
            Dawn
scratches on your blinds like some unseen stranger by your bedside.
            Certainly.
           
            The
chance brilliant bursting bunch of joy awaits in tiny compressed bits.
            You
hold back. Again. You stare out. Again. You wonder and watch and wait for
something you’re not sure you’re asking for. But you hear it and it’s almost
here.
            Flickers.
            Like
wings of a butterfly amplified times a million.
            Breathe
in.
            You
can feel something you can’t sum up in words. Those hollow, short, ugly little
four and five and six-letter street signs. Forcing you to stop and turn around
and slow down but always and forever you want to go and keep going and keep
talking and keep them coming one after another.
            Still.
            Something
around the bend and something rising with the sun. Something hanging in the
midday sky and something drifting back off to space.
            So
many wonderful little somethings you can’t sum up because you’re not sure what
they mean or stand for or signify.
            But
they’re all beautiful every one of them.
            You
scoop them up with scarred hands and watch them slip through fingers.
            They
remain and they continue and they heal.
            You
close your eyes but still see them. They accompany in dreams and they shine in
nightmares and they find you. Eventually they find you.
            You
look up and look out and hear it drifting. Softly. Like eyelids that slip
asleep and remain closed until you’re free at dawn brushing them open again. 

Submit a comment