Some call it “grit”, but I am more invested than that.

I am the Icarus man.

It’s a cold spring rain.

Such a small frivolity,

It’s a dull ache, It traverses me — head — legs — gut. It haunts me as I climb the stairs once again. I am not getting older. I am just…

We say goodbye to snow, the sun is shining down on the muck and turns it into dirt.

So it becomes, a loss due to lack of use.

Watch her now, she dances with her wicked step sister alcohol.

Seems anymore in the quiet, when I am alone.