Some days are madness:
quaking with thunderous voices
tumbling with dog piles and laughter
fistfights and lightening and adrenaline
waltzing through red-blue veins.
Too busy to think.
Tumbled about in a roaring wave
of the new strange noise
of this new strange world.
A buzz in his ears and his head
that drowns out the silence
in his heart.
Everyday is settled
by charcoaled hands and a face he cannot forget.
Some days are comfortable:
warm dawn light peeking through
soft blue curtains and fluttering eyelids.
Food in the kitchen and hot coffee and
familiar music dancing in his ears.
Wrapped in quiet.
Seeking out all the secret places
in this new Brooklyn
which still feel like home.
An old, worn blanket tucked snug
around an old, quiet soul
caught in time.
Everyday is a search
for that song he used to find in his smile.
Some days are crippling:
knuckles wrapped and slammed–
one, two–against worn, navy leather;
hard enough to sting and smart and punish,
running from the nightmares he caused.
Or thinks he did.
Scrubbing at the blood staining
broad, shaking hands;
sins no one else can see.
That final scream echoing in blue eyes
falling, falling, falling
away from him.
Everyday is a story
told to the soft whisper of his name.
Some days are okay days,
but everyday is a reminder that
Even if he had nothing else,
he needs Bucky.