rains, too. almost constantly.
and the poorly-insulated tin roof
of my (very) old apartment building
lets the sound come through to my second floor one-bedroom.
the building is constantly experiencing blackouts
(I've only been responsible for three of them)
and it's strange to be mid-sentence, mid-line, mid-expository
and have the lights around you disappear
the very second that you're writing something
about a pitch-black, poorly furnished, shag-carpeted apartment
terminally beneath literal rainclouds and metaphorical hailstorms
and then the shots ring out,
the man escapes into the night
and the lights return on and chase the darkness away,
scurrying underneath the front doorframe.
when the embers in my fingertips have died down
and the hail takes a breather
I look backward
revisiting every breadcrumb I've left behind
and last night
I was so afraid that everything would be closer than it appeared
when I poured all of it into a glass
and braced for the burn
it hit my tongue
and was a little weak for my taste.
so here's to the pilgrim's progress
and the bold souls who brave only the darkest of nights
and the murkiest of waters
looking for whatever brings them tomorrows.
here's to unburdened backs
and the freedom that can only come
from leaving things behind.