a drunken snow walk

How wonderful to walk noiselessly, everything softened by the hazy hue that comes with fresh glitter from the sky. There’s magic in the air, of course. The way you get to walk in the middle of the street, laced too tight boots falling into tire tracks, praying they won’t slide. The way you notice extra things - blankets on cars, the weird way the winds drift the snow, the flower sticker on that Prius now spotted by my mid-road walk. God I love it.

I watch the flurries, sparkled snow, fall and I eye the glitter, the beautiful motherfucking glitter that now paves the streets. And I think about the way I write, the way I whittle the words in my head. I turn them over, I stream my consciousness. And I know at the heart of this, most of it will be lost. My thoughts floating into infinity. I know that after this, without my phone, it’s all gone. Like the snow, in this moment all-encompassing, the next melted to nothing.

I know I’m a good writer, I know my thoughts are unique, but then again I know maybe they’re not. Because how would I know? Can I glimpse into your brain, peek into your pennied thoughts, see for myself what flurries in there? I guess we’ll never know. For now I wordlessly stroll through the sparkle.

And then, it what other world can I sprint down the smack dab center of the avenue of queens, the dog unleashed frolicking along. I muse about how snow both softens and heightens everything - a perfect dichotomy. The footfalls get softer, the stakes get higher as we question: what would happen if I slip?