P.M. Dawn croons the song, “I’d Die Without You” into my ear. Repeatedly. The poetry of the trains thundering into the station slay me. I let the roar seep inside, let it vibrate my bones. A familiar song thumping through my veins.
I imagine myself back-lit on a stage somewhere, un-abashed by my soft sap. Earnest, achingly so. I latch onto every word, soppy.
Inside my head, right when P.M.Dawn offers us little pieces of his heart, his soul, his mind — I reach out my own hand and let my fingers linger in the air. I shake loose old stories and flick the dirt off, reset the ugly. There’s pretty here now. There’s a point though — it always comes — when the ache knifes and I stop there.
I sway, I always sway.