Spring

I tell my story over

                And over

                Because the story isn’t over until I stop telling it.

And I am waiting for the happily ever after.

In the meantime,

                When times are mean,

                Strangers tell me other people are cold bastards,

And that we nice people are extremely unusual.

They are telling a story.

                They are tale-telling

                Name-calling, hero-waiting

Shivering in the extreme cold of lonely-exceptional-absolutely-zero.

This I believe:

As long as you use my story as an exception

It will be.

But when I listen at the window I hear

The special snowflake hero story

Is melting.

The warm tide is rising past my toes.

It feels nice.

No.

It feels wonderful.