“Back home is a shithole, but it’s my shithole!” Gabby says.
“This place isn’t kind to me, I’ll go back to the winter I know”
A rainy Tuesday, not sure if winter or spring or nothing at all.
Where can you go? Where can you live? Where dreams grow?
Gabby smiles and I tell her a joke, make her smile for a moment.
I like to make her laugh, to chase away some shadows, sorrows.
Keep hoping the sky will open, and either God or a comet will come.
Either we put the brokenness behind us, or no more false hope tomorrows.
Gabby is a star, and I am star, but we’re suns once eclipsed by the moon.
Light casts shadows across home, unearthly light that lingers in prayers.
I drink my beer, I watch a game on one of the TVs, and enjoy her company.
Passing as she heads north, I south, having lost all patience with soothsayers.