A friend has just died from a congenital heart failure. He was going to be twenty seven in three weeks. There’s been another school shooting, a new Valentines massacre, murder suicide, not even the first one of the year. I was fired from the Dance Center today, the job I’ve held the longest in my life, while the grandmother of one of my friends has just been put in the hospital, they don’t think she’ll survive the week. It all feels a lot like the good guys aren’t winning the war, like the future doesn’t want to be better.
I dream I hold you tightly while we sleep, your limbs tied to mine with fingers, our hips a perfect hiccough, the contraction of a verb, ankles crossed as if even our feet hold hands against the melting darkness, the gathering tomorrow that poses, threatens, over the bed like a crashing wave paused. Like jazz, we make it up as we go along, kissing at the speed of disaster, pushing our moaning mistakes until they became what we meant to do in the first place, all style, wet substance, and tangled, dramatic coherence.