On the days where balm meets dead o' winter, something happens.
You feel melodious. You are in a song.
I've had a terrible January and February hasn't been that promising either...
But March is a-comin'.
Someday, I'll leave this joint. I'll bust out.
My cell will be empty. My cot will be crease-less with fresh linens.
I'll be gone.
I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.
