Picking at the Cuticle

We were thankful. Thankful as thieves who'd gotten away with something.

We were children. We were suspects. Of crimes we couldn't name. In broken bits of life the songs would try to play. Touching the dirt with all five fingers. Betting with the moon on when or if ever the sun would show itself.

In the creases. Too sure of themselves. In the people so certain. I'd never be lost from them. The sky turned purple. And beat out its rhythmn. With a million tiny hands.

And I was thankful that I could hear it.

I was finished being anyone else's victim.

It was raining. It was so loud. Out there. And I was thankful. For all that was never ours.

I was thankful for all the things we never had.