The cold has just started and I find myself humming hymns for the snow to begin.

Surely, too soon.

My neck, my back, the muscles contorting into cruel kinks from balling up so tightly during the night. Perhaps I should close the window before I sleep.

I predict an early snow, and excess through the season.

I hope for an early snow, and excess through the season.

Wine will never keep a person warm quite like it does through Winter.

The arm, extended.

The tree standing next to me seems to be missing an eye.
… And I am stuck between chord changes.

Inside of my palms is a world of its own.
Something separate from my mind.
My body.
My heart.

These palms, they know things, long before manifested.
Itching, throbbing, aching.
They have a cryptocrip rhythm, and I know that D always equals U.

Fixation ebbs obsession.
You see it everywhere.
Taking on new shapes, new realizations.

It warps.
Though the constant shift is present, the end result is always the same.
Still, you.

I can’t be sure.
Maybe broken harmonies do exist.
Quite possibly created only for me to see.
Quite possibly just me.

Perhaps Zion was right.
Maybe they do sing a little.

… Because, Miss, always has a melody.

Victim of your two step.

Walking past churches at night can make anyone feel like a sinner. If you weren’t already out to be on your knees, you soon will. Begging for forgiveness.
Weeping for strength.

Even more, there’s something haunting, disturbing, about seeing a figure’s outline through deep hued stained glass.
Arms waving.
Body pacing.

You know what he’s doing in there on this night.
Practice makes perfect.
Sunday is coming soon.

My Aunt once told me that she stopped going to church because she couldn’t stop fainting. Her friend said that was the devil being expelled from her soul.
As a child, kneeling in Catholic pews, I wished I were fainting.

My Grandfather, a stern Roman Catholic, said fishing was his church. That he’d start attending a “real” one once they took the religion out of it again.
Always with a Mark Twain point of view.

And still, as I round the corner, keeping my eyes on the figure behind the glass, I can help but feel some sort of remorse.
Hoping for someone to be around to confess to.
Grant me absolution.

Someone to “catch me humming their nudity under my heavy breath”.