As Forecasted

i could write.

hell, i've got things to say, and just enough sense left to know which words go where.

i keep calling them things i 'want' to write about.

habit, i guess. even my vocabulary is pretending i give a shit.

woke up early, because i do that now, already knowing the sky would open up on me before the day was through.

which is why i was out there earlier, dragging an old reel mower across a yard built for a stadium, blades i've meant to sharpen since some other decade.

eighty-five degrees, the sun leaning its whole goddamn weight on the back of my neck like a collector who knows i'm good for it eventually.

put the sunscreen on twice. came in anyway looking boiled, skin tight and still smoldering.

at least i beat the rain to task.

couple hours of that usually spends whatever was left in the tank for the rest of the day.

but the grass was never the problem. i didn't want to write before it either. i just needed an excuse that could sweat.

turning a thought into a sentence would not be fun. it would not even be a chore.

just something to be doing while more of the day goes by.

minutes, hours, days pass without my notice. i blink and ten years may have passed.

fast forward on rewind.

a guy named spencer told me once i'm only ever happy the way a match is only ever lit - bright, brief, and burning down while you're still admiring it.

he wasn't wrong. i never did thank him for that.

i'm sure the writing will feel like something again.

i remember when it did. i'll believe it does, eventually.

none of that makes me want to do it now.

so .. to the couch.

what's left of the daylight, doing nothing, on purpose, while 'discover weekly' plays - some Spotify digital mixtape my dear starving artist sent me this morning.

outside, the lawn is getting watered.

already scheming the next time it'll need me.

it always does.

that's the one thing i can still count on.