Work Text:
New York City doesn’t believe in small miracles.
But even here,
Small things survive where they aren’t supposed to.
The dandelions.
From the rusted mouth of the balcony drain,
They’ve claimed a small patch of morning light.
Thin stems, white heads already loosening themselves from the world.
Persistent little heretics.
She is inside, cleaning her new gun.
I turn my head,
Lean against the doorframe,
And watch her for a moment longer than necessary.
She doesn’t look up,
But I see the corner of her mouth lift.
That’s how it always is with her.
Outside,
The wind shifts.
One of the dandelions gives in to the breeze.
The seeds lift, scatter,
Each one carrying the same quiet intention,
Survive, find ground, begin again.
Totally unafraid of where they’ll land.
I don’t make wishes.
Hell, I don’t believe in wishing.
I believe in probabilities, patterns, and codes.
But watching the light slide across the floor and over her face,
Sometimes standing here still feels like a miracle.
If there’s a future where I get to stay,
I think it looks like this,
Her breathing nearby.
And my world finally simple enough to hold.
Maybe some things don’t need to be pushed.
They loosen and they go.
Just like dandelions.