Under the Covers

I like watching the beads of rain weave through the mesh of my window, the clouds gray to solemn shades, the strikes of lightening like a snake; so spontaneous, unexpected, menacing. I like watching the lights turn off in a domino effect, wave through the neighborhood until I’m the only one awake. It gives me power, control, like I’m the only one watching, and nobody will ever know. As the lights glimmer on the highway, New York flashes into the small suburb; tall skyscrapers, the bustle of cars, jingles of music humming through my ear. The double-hung window is the television set, limiting the city to beyond my reach. There are nights when I can’t find it; when Vermont lingers for too long and the city never comes. Sometimes the wind whistles. It breezes through the limbs of the trees, hits the panels of the house and eventually dies down. When you think about it, there’s always music playing. The way the heart beats is like relentless drums and late at night under the covers, the drums crescendo until they’re just another sound in your ear. When the thunder rumbles, it’s a song sung by the earth. Sometimes it’s so languid, it lullabies me to sleep and seeps into my dreams. There are times when the music, though still existent, fades away. It’s a mind illusion, almost. Sometimes silence is all that falters, swathing the earth’s beats, and those five minutes of silence are what can keep a person sane. Sometimes the city never sleeps, the wind never whistles, the lights never dance, and it’s a sign. [Goodnight.]