the record spins,
playing my favorite song.
I excuse myself
to send a text message
to the begotten past,
knowing damn well
no reply will come,
and that's okay,
because music and smells are time machines,
and even Emily agrees with me.
forever underneath everything,
I dance my way to the horizon
in search of hope,
finding little morsels along the way,
enough to keep me going
and writing for another day.
meet me in the middle
of the long journey called life
and I will remind you every damn day
in poems and petrichor.