I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am a gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud and I apologize for my awkard sadness. I sometimes believe that I belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn't happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become o storm. You don't see the lighting, but you hear the echoes.