Fifteen minutes. My journey to you. Through the night-caked parks, fear driven streets, and familiar strangers laced in a layer of bottled courage. Braveness on their breath. Your name on mine.
With each step, the gravity of your heart pulls each foot off the ground. Head down, illuminated by the glowing screen. Home to our distanced conversations.
I finally put one foot on your doorstep, hold my breath waiting for you. Until your shadow brushes past the door. The porch light swiftly reveals every detail of your frame before my eyes. You emerge and I simply forget to speak. You light your cigarette, and the strike of the lighter brings me back to the moment enough to equip the courage to utter words I knew I’d never remember.
Into the darkest hours of the night, watching the smoke dance around our energy. Listening for the mid-night child cries through the open upstairs window where the rest of your heart lay sleeping. The stars matured with us, as you manifested that step into a concrete podium. Allowing me to truly see myself for who I am for the first time. Until then, my soul was a mystery. A whisper in the winds of mental illness.
I soaked in your wisdom, bathed in your ashes, and fell for your heart. Our souls entwined like the northern lights. Restoring beauty to our cold pasts. I climbed the cliched concrete staircase to heaven, as I sat across from my doorstep angel.