I leave the light on the front porch on on nights like tonight. When that post-storm fog descends on the valley like this, the bulb is like a lighthouse, pointing out a quiet port with peppermint tea, peanut butter cookies, and mild bluegrass sweet enough to bring life to your eyes. And as it starts to trickle again, as the clouds drip begin to drip onto unwalked-upon sidewalks and unheld hands, there's a tiny current of electricity standing here on my porch.
But sunrise comes every morning and chases away this ambiance, this ephemeral static hanging in wet air and I wonder how far that charge can travel. The drips gather into crevices in the pavement and they echo the glow of that gorgeous, gorgeous moon it's a little sad how beautiful it is. That moon up there is temporary, and its reflection even moreso, but that doesn't mean I'm not gonna stare. It just means I'm gonna stare harder. The magic will last for, what, another six hours? I'll accept that. I'll wish for more, but I'll accept it.
In the meantime, I'll sip my vanilla tea, hypothesize, and wait for the second my breath becomes visible.
You keep existing. I'll pray for rain.