there is rain on the window sill, a little puddle forming on the inside. the grey has been a weighty slab of flesh dampening the color of these trees and hills, a seemingly unending year of a thick, bland sky. the reluctance to reach out, text or call is indicative of my apathy and it’s only a moment more that will determine whether i leave this house or crawl into bed.
opt to leave, little man.
and bring your checkbook.
Today in March of 2017 is the first time I rode a motorcycle since I crashed one real good in April of 2016.
Funny how there is no life or death or bliss or pain that can measure the pleasure found on the back of a motorbike. Funny.
My mother’s birthday 20 days before her death day, two weeks after my brother’s suicide left us all in dark dismay. I’ll never leave you broken that way, never leave you unless you want it that way.
Ten grand and I can make you understand and we’ll ride until there’s nothing left of land.