I walk the snowy northern woods with a rusty shovel on my shoulder, a couple ounces of whiskey left in this bottle. The cigarette on my mouth is wearing out like the clothes covering my body, and despite the protection against the winter they give me, I still shiver. I closed this window to this room a long time ago, and it's still cold. To no surprise of mine these pieces of fabric, (much like the paper wrapped around the cigarette playing phoenix with my mind and lungs and dismay) are being mirrored by these boots on my feet, that buckle finally after so many years of use. I realize the situation is precarious and slightly dangerous perhaps, but I burnt the bridge a long time ago, because I have no sense of strategy.
In the end I should explain that, if these traveling eyes told stories they wouldn't be happy I guess, even the boring days sought after a roborant medicine or poison after the words spoken or real-time images flashed before them. And these ears that over the years were shielded by musical notes have only heard besides them a wave crashing by the pier, birds singing in the morning, a beautiful girl saying "I love you", these feet crushing the well-packed snow as they go by marching towards something important, the cigarette same cigarette as in the start burning away, and a piano key that seems a little off when compared to the many others.
I think it's a curse, placed on me at some point by the past long before I can even remember, maybe my soul is marked by continuous treason against the creator, though I still am confused about his real existence, sometimes though my inner self pleads for an attempt at a prayer to see if these goosebumps that haunt me ever since I was a child will go away, even if for a short day. And I can hear poetry and other things that rhyme going in and out of my mind like fireflies buzzing about. I stop for a second to take a final swig at the whiskey and throw the bottle on the ground so I can keep the cigarette in it and away from my warm tired eyes.
I take this time to wonder about the things in my life, my pros and cons. My love for my girl, my warmth for my friends, my carelessness, my addiction to cheap nicotine, the shivers, the presence that haunts me in my sleep when I lay my head down that falls on the bed like an anvil filled with thoughts as always. So many. I wonder if the souls I just buried under 6 feet of dirt and 2 of snow will come back to haunt me, so I get a little scared and the shivers stop for a brief moment. I think the few coins I have in my pocket to play steel guitar are ready to start jingling again with my hurried pace and fear of a noise I just heard out in the woods.
I had a 20 and the dealer had a 15, I could have said stop and taken home the gold but I said "hit me". Just slipped out like a careless thought to a summer time friend. I sigh and crack a smile at an invisible ally, that exists but isn't there. Much like everything that's perfect in my life, that friend is far away. I left home early and yet, I can still taste the copper taste of sadness and poverty in my mouth swiveling around with the sugary taste of love and pathetic attempts of watering made by a winter dry mouth and lips. The shivers are back and these clothes can't stop them, I just feel tired.
I've gotten out of the woods, and the people in the subway stare at me funny. Over time my ability to not care about opinions faded along with the ability to hold back words that don't harm the souls around me. I slur some words to a T worker about directions to the area my house is in, I've become slightly forgetful with time. I can't remember their answer, so I sit down on a bench outside the station as college kids stare with pity in their eyes, or some sort of console of a kind that I despise. I put my hands covered by my sleeves over my mouth, bend down to my knees and start to daydream, wishing I could find my way back home so she could warm me up tonight.
I fall asleep hoping that the sun of yesterday replaces the clouds of today, tomorrow.
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