They warned you that your blood would boil and your fingers would burn,
but still you reached for their light like a drowning man at the bottom of a well,
and tried to swallow them whole.
I remember that sparkling night,
when we watched a comet fall like a tear drop pulling open the sky,
and I asked you what you wished for,
even though I already knew the answer

I turn my key in the rusty lock, but this place doesn’t feel like home. Winters are always freezing, and seem longer than they are. Stagnant. My lips are chapped and your face looks pale in the watery light, but at least we are both still breathing. Every exhale hovering in the air like a ghost. We’re always saying to ourselves that things will get better, happier, we are also always reminding ourselves that we can throw in the towel, should we need to. But really, what good does that do? We can dig holes and lie in them, but what good does that do? I say I should get some rest and the air is cold in my lungs, frozen like the tips of my fingers, the solid earth, nails in the ground. I force the door open and it’s still the same. I’m always surprised when time keeps moving forward.

Thats what I realized on a Tuesday morning, right before the rain fell but after I had made my coffee. I like dark coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Something about the way the bitterness blossoms over my tongue, and how the sugar tastes but doesn't last. I also like how the warmth spreads through my stomach, like a remnant of the warm blankets on my pale purple bedspread. It's autumn though, and it doesn't take long for the rain to fall. I drive through it in my old ***** van, kind of like a mother of three, but with no children and no extra seats. It's a bit funny when the stereo doesn't work, and the left break light is broken, and the grocery store is closed on Sundays.