Cold Nights

Cold nights are holy to me.
There is a clarity to the sting of my cheeks
and the sight of my breath.
I keep my eyes open long enough
that tears find themselves built, swelled,
and fall on their own decision.
I only feel the sadness after they've created themselves.

And if no one is around I speak out loud:
“Where are you? What are you doing?”
I'll try not to listen to music,
but wait for the whispers of a distant city
to tell me something new about myself.
Give me a revelation that will set me to bed
and strive me for more the next morning.

It's on spare nights like these
that I set out to cut through the layers of my day
and my fear
and hope to answer who I am.
I get real quiet. I stand real still.
I watch my breath wisp in front of me
to know I'm still capable of life.
And I feel my chest pinch stress and release blood.
And the tears come because I haven't blinked in 6 minutes.
And my face is warm. And I feel cold.
And I still don't know anything more.

Photo by Rachel Broaddus.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.