ghosts of what i could beMature

Yesterday itched like an uncomfortable sweater; insignificant storms hung in the air like so much homeless dust, muddying up the rhythm of my breathing and creating air pockets of pressure and wordless emotions between my joints.  Like a sorrow that knows it's been hanging around too long.  I wanted to come home and strip the day away with the layers of damp clothes; lose my insurmountable dissatisfaction beneath my jacket, my malcontent shed with my sneakers at the door.  I would have left my migrating sadness on the porch to trickle off my umbrella, but I never can find one.  My reflection plays in the rain, dancing between the droplets like a phantom glimpse of an alternate reality.  I downcast my eyes and push open the front door.

The End

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