Praise to the Holy Habitual

The story goes like this.

One day you’re sitting in a living room on a Friday night
with the family you chose for yourself, howling laughter
ricocheting off apartment walls, everyone seeing double.
We’re fifteen bodies content in perfect company, pushing
the limits of a noise complaint from the neighbors, but
singing out anyway, because we are here, we are here

and then we’re not

and we may never be again

at least not in the same way.

Perfect configurations, these habitual moments
we hold close but never quite close enough.

For a brief moment in time we were just twentysomethings
kicking our shoes off by the door to stay for a while.

That’s the story.

It has no ending

but maybe that’s what makes it worth telling.

We were there,
we were there,
we were there.

I could sing it out forever.

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