I carry the night in my pockets

Photo by Biel Morro on Unsplash

I carry the night in my pockets, reading letters to brothers
under electric street lamps. I cuffed my wrists with the flesh of your neck and then took you out for pizza. On some mornings,
I drink coffee to burn my inside with the same fire I’d use
to spread comfort to humanity. But I am no demigod, I got no powers. Yet my own rules to break. I carry…a night in a paper bag,
rolled up and ready to go. Still warm…still cold. I carry the fear of death, and the awe I feel, with tremors, for the stars. Heart in a tempest, feet in a storm…water knee high. I carried the night in my pockets, the way my mother carried sand into the ocean. I carry what I need in a rolled-up paper bag, ready to sleep, ready to meet you at the other end of this.