BY ZAKARIYA HOUCAINE
It crawled in through all the windows, swept through all the doors, and crept through all the halls of the houses where we laid. A week in the Northeast.
On our backs or standing on our feet, either way we are just tired and wearing down. Floating in an ocean of suburban homes and snow.
Was your house, breaking through the cold with its waning light bulbs just above the steps outside. We played records because they sounded warmer than the weather outside. Soon they’ll be cracking, but we will never forget their sounds.
We sang songs to try to remember our forgotten lives.
Soon our voices will be cracking, but I don’t think I mind.
Film fades. Clothes tear. But the sound waves press on.
Infinitely dividing into smaller frequencies until dissipating harmlessly into heat energy. And bringing some warmth to these harsh Winter days.