This time of year - it burns in me again and again. Must be the approaching day of birth that makes a fever, a catastrophic courage, not felt elsewhere. In all the valleys of the mind and seasons. All the ties I've bound myself to and can't entirely escape. --- They feel breakable in spring. I play all my characters at once, and the stars keep rising, the blooms keep breaking, bursting, open.
The parables of time that form in tangible clouds of smoke - the last real dive bar in existence - climbing questions into the force pulling me within breathing paces away of a magic man. Chaperone me a little longer because I might, I might -- take him with the night -- if either were to break the trance; on instant impulse. Blinking awake and gasping all at once.
Would take him in the street -- with it's draped any-holiday lights -- with all it's risk of being run over, by either soul, of course. More than bodies.
But I only had till dawn -- and it was rising. My friend yawning, and the long highways home rumbling just outside ever louder.
Another man livin' far away from my little cobble town of ghosts, and fractured streets. The rarity of words -- so intoxicating and gentle, and tightening -- and oh, how it shivers from the smell so wonderful -- better than anything available to consume.
---
Waking late the next afternoon, shaking off the entrapments of some labyrinth, and laughing. With the sun piercing the curtains -- decadently pushing myself back into the night before.
Feeling - in a rare moment - that all my friends all over were in arm's reach just then. ---And just because it's spring, and I'm getting older, and the road had brought another beautiful mind to imagine. And just because - you can seem to love someone for the span of stars and a day, in this life of strange encounters. It all makes some profoundly distant sense of make-believe. All disappears softly, and it's ok.
.
