Shaking

I have a cup in my hand. Spilling it. Then I pour some into my hands. Laughing. So I get more. Sipping coffee from my palms. Beautiful. The journal. Pages. Folded up, turning into paper airplanes. A journal is like… When my car sputters in the winter, But it starts up anyway. Crying. It’s cold. Pulling out of the driveway, carefully. I used to carry my flashlight. Sweeping the light around. These days? I don’t know where light comes from. Just sparkles. And reflections in empty trash cans. I threw away my phone. I didn’t think they would actually take it. But the garbage truck comes at 6:00 am every morning. Earthquakes seem very long. So I think I imagined it. Cowering for three hours. Until I get anxious and want a cup of coffee. I pour a cup of coffee. But the shaking makes me drop it again.