Bunker Hill, Grand & 5th

Daily I hold my senses more suspect, such that the various sounds of rustling do not anymore have anything to do with the cold breeze on my nape and bare head. I learn to wait patiently, on a cold day, bathed in faint yet intoxicating sillages of perfume, burnt rubber and mild expectations. On a late winter's day, on a day like today, as on any other, I could have decided how you must needs be the one. Many have come before you, many to follow still, but you proudly own the moment, my precious while belongs to you, and in an awkward time in dire want of surety, when even the sky is undecided whether to drop rain or snow, I learn to be content with what I'm given, I learn to play the hand I'm dealt; so much that on a day like this, as on any other day, though I try not to show it, I grow weary, I hold my senses suspect.