Is water aware of its fluidity the way I know piano solos transform my muscle into the flesh of fruit, cut open on a tile counter like a homicide? How I always pick up my pen the moment a bridge meets its climax because my heart is whispering for permission to unfold like gardens in early March when the frost still hugs the grass like a clingy girlfriend with lipstick on her teeth and I listen like the station i've been skipping on the freeway for too long out of the arrogant notion that I probably have better taste than the radio station and maybe now is the time to release the narratives that treated my heart like a dog that barks too much but never took a moment to hold it in its arms and like a rebel to a stubborn mother I let its grip fly out the window on the I-95 and watch them flail like dancers on a stage that seemed too big but remembered cookie jars always required a bit of ballet as a kid and no counter was too tall for their passions and so now they cut through air like fateful crumbs of a sweet beginning and like them, my narratives dip in the moonlight like they should have been buried beneath a while ago but sour things deserve their own freedom and forgiveness because regret is the incessant true bark and these old tales now float in a stream along a freeway trying to convince the water just how dry it is