or getting back together. I keep trying to acquire a taste
for the less spectacular things in life despite temptation’s

constant pull. One ache ties into another until we become
tangled knots of trauma. Hear anything repeated enough

and you will begin to believe it as scripture. Sirens drag
their urgent tones through the streets of an indifferent

city, a sound that fades but never vanishes. Eventually,
you mistake their pulsing wails for the familiar songs

of sparrows. Eventually, you mistake birdsong for the
hushed hum of gospel hymns under your mama’s breath

while she bakes. My friend only listens to music on vinyl
because he swears he can hear his late father’s laugh

layered in the static between tracks. I swear there is
no trick to surviving beyond forgiving yourself for guilt

when you think just for an instant too long about your
impending death. Even if that occurs this evening, while

staring at a clichéd sunset. Other people’s joy keeps me
awake at night, so the blues echoing inside my insomniac

mind remind me of how each moment nudges me closer
to my demise. I have grown too old to die young, so now

I only harvest regrets. Admittedly, I chose a questionable
time to renew my optimism, but hopelessness is just hope

working its way up to the starting line. There are so
many moments of grace I’ll never understand or truly

enjoy. Like when I had finally reverse-engineered the
sauce from the barbeque joint I liked that shut down

several summers ago. Adore those whom you love and
ignore those who hate. The silence of an unlit cigarette

croons the ballad of a restless heart, confessing all we’ll
never do with this makeshift miracle of not dying, not yet.