When a verb is a word it loses its purpose to be. 

I sit under the dormant street lights hearing the crackle of water diffuse from its source of higher concentration to the roof of my car. I know I should wake early tomorrow for work, but the seat of creativity flows through my capillaries. My fingers move and the fortuitous bounce of ideas row softly into the basket. Point after point, I smile at the scoreboard and sing the song of deliverance after a day decides to reset under sleepy eyes. 

I wake up and I clench my abdomen through the cold of an unwritten morning. I slide past the door like mail coming in through a house. I sometimes hum the melody of the broken world and ride its discouragement until the hoof of my horse stops to gather its breath. It doesn’t want to move and understandably it wasn’t trained to wander past through green pastures and the plurality of ponds of water. 

I often thought I could mimic the worship of a saint. I thought a preacher’s voice was my own if I amplified it loud enough. In the struggle of planning for age, it is a confounding nature to want to sit in biased conclusion that I have grown too old for the dreams of the young. I belong in a cohort of compatibility with a box yet unwrapped and prospectively want the study of opening that box to favor me. 

But retrospectively, I was the case and He was the control. And when something as rare as a relationship is exposed, He became the verb for me to be. 


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