Spring leans in, pressing its nose to the glass. Thistles bloom in a parking lot. Robins feed in a schoolyard at dusk. Free range children run a little wilder, all smudge and theft. Two hearses arrived at a single house just down the block this morning, after all the rest of the siren bearing services proved past their ability to serve. I haven't heard the details yet, but I am guessing a murder suicide. Spring is the season when, once the weather gets a little better, suicides do reach their peak. A little better is often not nearly close to good enough.
I watch the fauna, take note of the flora. I watch the skies change color and the stars changing shifts. My own mood, running blue and brutal, sets itself against me. I try not to take too much notice, but I still won't let it out of my sight. My self contempt likes to turn outwards into murderous intent, and even my suicidality seems to have very broad parameters. Try as I might, I guess I just got to give back. I stay out as long as need be, sifting through streets and parks, wandering around until I lose myself.
There's always something. People to catch up with, stuff to watch, books to read, books and poems to write. Sleeping on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, working up fresh regrets. Yard work and housework and all manner of burden and routine. I carry the lonesome nested in my head, I bear the empty that runs right through me. The next day, the next night. The waning moon working towards waxing again.
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