Transitory.

It's raining, a gentle thunder
harmonizing with the persistent
melodies of liquid energy. I am
hopeful in this moment, eager
for dreams that seem farfetched
to the common eye; I was not born
into mundanity.

Tonight, I am not living among
the supernatural. I am not a screenplay
tantalized with plot holes and jump
scares rivaling monsters in the closet.

Tonight, I am alive, despite the
bottomless alcohol and seduction of
sleep. I hope to dream, and if only once,
then with vigor. I hope to dream of
time machines and outdated love and
weathered musical instruments that
people have forgotten how to play.

It's raining harder now, but I am
unafraid. I hope to dream, and to
have no one measure my merit or
abilities or fortitude.

I hope to dream, and just be,
temporarily.