You know how it’s going to happen next.
The Mystic stood atop the moonlit podium
One last time, the last
Of many terminal milestones to soon come.
“Slow, horns up.”
The Fitzgerald of three years ago still feels so close,
But somehow everything found it’s way back to me then.
Every crooked note sung in the shower,
Every North Apartment breakfast
Coiled their intangible strings together in a way
That turned a safety net into a dreamcatcher.
I saw the silhouette of the person in every one of these memories
As I took my first step out of the threshold.
I felt a tap on my shoulders
after the first B flat departed from Annabelle, my trombone,
As if plucked as the common denominator between
Wintertime dreams in a snowy foreground
Six hours of tortured hysteria on a Peter Pan bus
One of the best poop-related stories ever told
He stood right beside me, hands on my sweaty shoulder
Like he never left us.
I looked down at my feet, realizing
There’s such a beautiful world on the other end of where I stood.
The threshold wasn’t a gate, but a veil.
If this is the end where everything starts again.
I closed my eyes,
My voice cracked like a drunken bear in an armoire.
Hot tears streamed down my cheeks
And I started to sing those magic words.
The end is near
And so I face
The Final Curtain