6 a.m., my favorite time of morning. Turn on the songs I can’t get out of my head, plug in machines for coffee and straight hair and air conditioning. Another day begins with little promise except the knowledge that it, too, will end.
Sometimes outstretched hands belong to the most surprising of arms. Sometimes not. If the adage is true that some things never change, why bother with denial? What haunts late at night is still there in the morning.
“Let it out, let me in, take a hold of my hand
There’s nothing like another soul that’s been cut up the same
And did you want to drive without a word in between?
I can understand, you need a minute to breathe
And to sew up the seams after all this defeat
And we waited for the sirens that never come
And we only write by the moon
Every word handwritten
And to ease the loss of youth
And the many, many years I’ve missed you
Pages plead forgiveness
Every word handwritten”