the air feels like fire.
it’s cold but there’s something lingering in it
and it burns enough to make you warm.
it envelops you in hundreds of smells, wet pavement, fresh paint, gasoline, salt, the smells of a city alive at night.
heads and ears pulsating and ringing as the hundreds of voices surrounding you dance.
it’s been nine days since a boy was shot in cold blood
by an unpunished officer.
"protect and serve"
there are hundreds of sweating and shaking bodies surrounding your own in a protestor’s dance.
on a crisp night like this, nobody is a singled.
we are one, screaming, angry, and trembling mass.
a man walks by.
usually you would take into account his presence.
you would notice that he was tall, towering over you, or the scar that ran through his thick eyebrow like lightning. usually you’d be gripped by an unintentional fear by his overpowering existence, but tonight it doesn’t matter.
maybe take into attention the tiny pale woman who’s body was shoved into yours, and how her bones jut out like they’re trying to escape. tonight is not that night.
tonight is the night where the streets of portland, maine, and hundreds of other cities around the world
run with sweat and tears.
tonight is the night in which humanity falls like dropping a feather in the wind.
tonight is passion like boiling water from a teapot long ignored.
