Once upon a time, I could hardly wait to curl up in some dusky corner and fill my veins with smoky blues and red wine.
Clink glasses with Billie Holiday. Hold my knees. Sway. Ride the dark current of longing. Sob religiously until the drunk took me at last. A form of premeditated spiritual murder in retrospect.
But tonight I realized I haven’t cried in 98 days.
The rest is still there. The voracious hunger. The bleeding heart. The inexplicable kinship with hundred year old divas. So many songs that will not die.
Drinking didn’t enhance the pain, it didn’t suppress it, it didn’t purge it…
It was the pain.
What I am left with now at 2 am on a Tuesday morning after a long, hard night of Etta James and Ella Fitzgerald is quite simply the lucid, ruthless ache for Love.
My name for God.
The throb is the stardust of our Love. An all but tangible signpost, the texture of which only thickens with sobriety. A constellation of breadcrumbs Home.
Bittersweet consolation in our song.
And we all have one. A God song.
I sang mine for you today in my car after my lunch break.
At the top of my lungs, unabashedly, head thrown back; my song swelled endlessly in my chest like a tiny universe.
Looking for empty spaces.