The melting point of gold

The flaxen leaves find themselves littered in the crevices of the aged asphalt. Their honey glow contrasting wildly from the cracked black street at my weary feet. It reminds me of broken vases repaired with molten gold. Little fissures that don’t devalue the art piece, but are believed to make it more beautiful. I kick at them despondently as my heart droops from this little spot of darkness it’s been cornered into. It beats fiercely, rattling the cage it has found itself in. It spends its daylight hours fighting for freedom, and each night remains jailed by the migration patterns of its cruel world. 

I’m simply in the crack. And all that my heart is pumping for will fill this unloved chasm with its sweet honey gold. I will praise my strength, reaffirm my courage, it will all be worth it. It might even be beautiful. But right now, it feels like fighting gravity.

The wind switches and the leaves move in formation, like geese traveling south, or sea foam reaching its fingers into the sand. How easily the world sends us from where we’ve settled. How quickly our stance can shift. I watch as it blows these golden leaves into an open wound in the road. Another flaw made perfect, in its own disastrous way. I will what may come, perhaps with great defeat, to blow into these fractures of my being and make whole what’s lay gaping too long.

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