I was writing a song in 3/4 time.
One, two, three. One, two, three...
And my mind couldn’t dance far from
the Biblical verses that were read to me earlier.
I sat on the wood floor of my bedroom
in my under garments alone.
I chain smoked and my head met the floor in anger.
Repetitive and purposeful self harm
for my mind couldn’t produce words
that truly depicted the flame on my brain.
I stepped outside for a walk in the moonlight.
The street was clear, but grey snow grew from the sidewalk.
I found Gabriel with the moon on his back,
standing on his rooftop, reciting Thoreau
and crying...
I looked up and watched,
the orchestra pit violinist watching the show from her chair.
I wanted to clap and weep with Gabriel,
but I dared not disrupt him.
He wiped his eyes and flung the moisture into the cold air.
I swear I could feel a drop fall on my head...
I watched puffs of warm air leaving his mouth
and his hair clung to his neck.
He cried softly. His shoulders quivered.
And in the moment, Gabriel,
the liturgist, the playwright, the angel,
had left.