A Religious Easter Weekend

On my back

drifting across the black sea

hand occasioning to dip and caress

the warm and inviting asphalt.

Knuckles bounce joyously inside fingerless gloves

as they stretch and interlace

the wheels beneath me creak and groan

but peacefully as they can.

Billy Collins words drift through my headset.

 

From far off, someone’s Black & Mild scent drifts into my breathing.

I am not offended, nor am I by the sounds of close cars that wash over me.

I am content with the world carrying on,

so long as I may have

this patch of tar

for myself.

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In Transit.

Sitting on a subway I see a sunset skyline. The stalwart buildings peacefully standing as a solid contrast to the hues of the oncoming night. It’s so awe-inspiringly awesome that I can’t help but smile. Yet something feels off. I sit here and get the sense that I will not  remember this image. For one reason or another, perhaps because I am tired or maybe because I am excited, I probably will not remember this beautiful scene. I try my hardest to imprint it in my mind, to hold on to it as best I can, but I feel like I’m failing. And at this sense I come close to crying. It’s not out of sorrow for the picture lost in my mind, but instead out of the joy that there could be so much more beauty that holds its preeminent place. The simple fact is that despite not being able to remember this means little because of all that there is to look forward to.