The sun showers before she sets, absent of expectations of variegations.
I’m banging my head to the songs that perpetuate my teenage guilelessness. Youth feels farther in the rear view despite the warning signs. Nearly everything in my body pulses as the speakers reverberate. My foot on the pedal is the only sense of stubbornness in my car, having abandoned the rest somewhere I can’t quite recall.
The broken bones will mend, but the fibrous connective tissue ceases to forget.
Did it feel like the rain was approaching from outside or within my body? When did barometric pressure become more reliable than these limbs? If the soul can splinter, what type of bandages should I have been using? Will the stitches extricate themselves from my ghost?
It feels like feeling everything to the full capacity that I wasn’t able to for so long. I play catch up with my sensations, my once-stunted senses rebuilding their stamina. They were miles ahead of me.
Our legs are supposed to fatigue, our shins are meant to split, sins right down to the seams.
There will come a day where the sun shows itself later into the evening, as you pass by the 72 year old ice cream shop that you used to visit as a kid after blueberry picking on the sweltering summer days of July
and you will decide to get the ice cream cone just for the sentimentality of it all and you wait in the outside line for 20 minutes and you shiver because you didn’t expect the change of weather to be so brisk although you should have known better, and it will be April and you know better than to trust the lion to remember when it was once a lamb
and you keep waiting until you are next to order and see the xerox printed sign that the shop only takes cash and you don’t have cash but you came here anyway and “there is an ATM just around the corner” says a shivering elderly couple, so you pay the excess fees for a twenty dollar bill that pays for the ice cream, refusing the pass back exchange with the cashier, and your “please keep the change” to him is honest and freeing
and you will sit in your parked car to indulge, in the chaos theory, in the spontaneity and perhaps pretentiousness of it all, and you stop shivering and you see the old couple grabbing their cones and wonder if they too have been patrons for as long as they can remember and this day is more sentimental now. everything matters more, now.
it was before, and now it is after.
it was before, and now it is after.
