Written in the summer of 2018.
In a habit of singing praises. The truth is daily I pick my heart up off the ground, heaving it, heavy, down the sidewalk.
In a habit of seeing a vision. It often happens mid-conversation. Of my strung out father on our yellow leather couch and later his breathless body in a hotel room downtown.
I get a feeling you, too, have habits. And I want to be gentle with the reasons you have them.
Whether we meet on a mattress, half-made of week-old navy blue blankets, where the madness and magic poured into separate bodies become one. In all weakness and strength, I realize my power — and both of our habits.
Whether we meet down the block where the concrete’s cracked, where the ivy wildfires up the brick and the crime light exposes it. There we could meet for various reasons, of one I’m quick to think. I realize the weight of my power — and both of our habits.
In the habit of wearing a habit, when truly I'm battered, nearly always by forces I don't remember, blows I can't trace. Waning towards waxes two hundred times faster than the moon and its phases. I beg my heart to maintain its lacquer for a masquerade my ego threw. Instead I watch its orbit fall loose: it's got habits, too.