Angelic Few

I ride my candy apple red Vespa into downtown, on a cold Sunday morning, just as the sun is rising.

The chill through my clothes, the silence and the light give to the angelic few is sweet and always surprising.

A mission to escape my room, let the cold and the space and movement break up my thoughts and emptiness.

The skyscrapers and old churches and gentrified restaurants are even more impersonal when isolated.

I hold onto to one ember, one warm thought, in a winter that promises to take the last hope that I am not alone.

It was good, but she turned away, and I don’t know what I did. Somehow I’m not who I thought I was.

Radiating in the universe falling to heat death that is my mind, is her face, her soft words, the grazing of her fingers on my hand.

The big bank towers loom over me on Gay St., the newest skin of unslain dragons, basilisk teeth still poisoning our skin.

I drive on, thinking I have to turn back home, just short drives to nowhere anymore, for it’s all the same everywhere.

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