It felt like the cement floor had open me up and enveloped me like a rib cage longing for a heart. I was slightly out of grasp, or just slightly out of touch. I have never heard the night sky sing like this with sadness or the cooing creak of cicadas. The red church sat with judgmental green doors blinking at me as strangers walked the steps inside to see a home I have never known or wanted. I have never needed that sort of love. The medicine I have tasted comes from binges of technicolor cartoons on nights that lasted too long. Time has been running out since it started and I can’t tell if it’s better to count what was or what will be. And the church with its emerald eyes has sat with its gaze cast at my window, as if to say I am picking wrong I am picking wrong. I cannot escape the anvil that straps itself to my chest when I go to bed. Maybe someone is praying for me.