Each closed eye, each thrust back head, each wiggled hip, left a mark. We’d look for dark rooms, loud music, long nights. Drum beats made the darkness better. Pianos isolated the need for more. Daylight, that was just a place that you made due. Nighttime pushed past the shadows.
That lasts a few years. A decade. Then those early mornings where the heat has yet to establish itself, and the golden bends of the first striated rays of light concoct a leveling codex. The time is now, you think. But it changes again and again and again. Time is like that.
by Hank Cherry