Blankets.
I apologize.
Sure, it’s a blanket apology. But blankets are what keep us alive in this bullshit never-ending winter. I wear mine as a cloak, as I clatter against the keys.
I’m sorry for fighting outside of the Drake Hotel. The partial nudity was definitely unnecessary. I’m sorry I can’t remember any birthdays. I hate mine, but that’s not an official certificate to be an asshole. This brain will not stop running in strange directions, impossibly tuned to a frequency promoting secret rebellions. Birthdays and numbers have no elbow room in here. Forgive me for my congregation of agitation. I walk through the valley of corrections, fixing every wrong word and note after it’s too late. I feel your resonating pain. There is a portal through my Xiphoid Process. I can see what I did to hurt you. But I’m distracted by the marimba sounds from the ribs surrounding me. I’m dancing to the accidental calypso music my chest makes when I travel through time and space. I don’t know how to stop. I wish I had a parachute to jump out of here. I’d fall two feet down, land on my lawn and wait for you to pick up the lip of silk and uncover me. Another blanket to raise and say it’s cool. We’re cool.
I have done it all wrong, many times. It’s always just a different pair of fear’s trousers. Low, low fashion. The thing is, there were moments when it was all right. Warm, purple afternoons with blankets beneath us, when nothing else mattered.