Good night, goodnight

Sometimes, right before bed, I crank open the window and listen. To the winds singing with the cars on the highway. To the dogs shuffling along with their humans. To the flower petals brushing against the ground. To the train screaming into the night.

Other times, I look. At the blades of grass whisked into a waltz with the wind. At the branches bowing to the moon. At the spaces in the darkness where I knew stars hid. At the covered windows across the way. At the cars racing to be anywhere but here.

And other times still, I take a deep breath in and taste the flavors of burned rubber. Of dog. Of wind-swept hair. Of dying lavender. Of exhausted sighs. Of dreams forgotten, dreams deferred, dreams gone. Of salted regret and glazed anger.

My tongue is electrified the longer I let myself exist in this moment. And most times I find myself standing there, leaning out, looking down at the slats of wood and flower pots, wondering what it’d be like to just listen to silence, see a sky full of constellations, and taste nothing but a sweetness I’ve been chasing my whole life.

I wonder if anyone feels that.

And I wonder if I’ll ever get there before cranking the window shut and pulling myself into bed.