Writing in the kind of coffee shop that is all windows and foam.
Listening to Johnny Cash and Kendrick Lamar while I hit at the keyboard.
Voices calling, voices crying
Some are born and some are dying
Writing about a girl I’ve decided to make out of haze and then grow up into a woman. She’s being raised by some words that don’t capture what I mean and a plot that explains everything I’ve meant for years.
Or maybe that’s reversed.
A quiet moment, when the fingers slow because the world I’m creating has diminished and I can’t feel it anymore. I take a break and turn the music up, maybe the beat in my ears will renew the beat of my heart.
All my grandma’s dead
So ain’t nobody prayin’ for me
And for just a moment that doesn't deserve belief, but still feels more real than the world I’m building or the one I’m being built in, it seems I haven’t been prayed for since my dad died.
And I wonder if I miss him or being prayed for more.