That aging alone, so different from its more youthful sister. That aging alone, moves with a speed better kept with quantum physics, or the blurred lines of streetlamps in misting rain.
I heard the sounds of poor piano while walking with a cup of coffee and the hint of tears floating in the frost. Guessing at a window I looked to see eyes over the cover, the keys tinkling arrhythmic. And I was broken. The messy ponytail over dark glasses, pale skin and frayed scarf, staring with sullen grace at some fading poster.
That aging alone, like the horror of weekends spent filling the void with tumbling books, and scratched out phrases; the laughing drunks’ eyes pull from directionless places, pull from the room what small comfort can be gained.
Clouded skies obscuring, like music in brightly painted rooms. The back streets empty, save for highlights of voices carried from hidden places. The streets quietly hiding their fidelity to the masses. The lights from rooms and shadows of people moving as dance, as vocalizations telling us that the night is not to be feared, but to be used to raise voices in joyous refrain. And I hear those sounds as my jacket soaks through, my coffee long drained of it’s warmth. That aging alone, walking back to a quiet house to stare out of windows, hoping for the sounds of piano on the wind.