Bus stops and ballads and empty lyrics slip in between the chill.
Fingers in gloves too thin and wiggling my toes inside my socks inside my runners waiting for the #3 to say these words on tiny keypads.
A month and a week or maybe more between the loss of words and the dreams that fall from white gated heavens in the spaces between forever and three jobs and my two smiling angels waiting for Dada to come home.
Come with me in the invisible stolen moments between stops and thoughts and wondering which groceries to buy until Friday. Hallelujah echoes the ghostly voice of Jeff Buckley beneath the wheels and the diesel humming and the distant voices of young people just like me once upon a time.
The voice slips and fades beneath the running water and vanishes too soon too young too distant. “It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…hallelujah…”