h a r d r a i n l i g h t

My hands hurt. I have cuts that are healing and drying and cracking back open. Bending my fingers feels like grinding my teeth. I never want to live in Miami again. Time and distance has strengthened my assurance. I have all of these words knocking together inside of me and there is water in the streets of New York City. It crashes against the buildings. How many great storms will it take? Restless. Running makes me feel strong. Pounding, pushing myself back down into my body. Why am I always leaving when it feels so good to be right here in this very moment? Blue and black ink. Lines. Lots of space to fill. Hours and hours and hours. Work. More hand aches. Body aches. The cold gets in between my bones. Hardens my muscles. Piano keys in my ears. Bheetoven... Beethoven... how the hell do you spell his name? Moonlight Sonata grabs these pieces inside of me and pulls on them. That matters more than spelling. More than words and names and order. I am shuffled into place sometimes.