Jumping the fence of a closed terrace just before midnight and having the whole place to yourself to stare out at the lights across the frozen lake.


We may never know what the ocean floor looks like.
Every coin that has ever been thrown into a well
falls upwards through the universe and becomes a star.
Stars shake loose and fall from the gums of the sky like rotting teeth,
and like that, we keep wishing on. Keep fighting. Keep waltzing
our bodies through the slow, back-breaking dance of life for anything
that is still sweet. If it’s pain we’re having then let it be brief.
If it’s grief we must swallow, let it sharpen our teeth.
If joy is a rare knife sawing through the meat of despair,
we’ll drink the blood like wine for what we lost to make it here alive. 
The crickets sing a dirge for the dying light and it is a miracle
that our chests can contain the hammering of love.
It’s a miracle when the tide comes back, every time.


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