The Playwright Crystal Skillman, 2006
In my building.
When it was snowing out of nowhere here last month.
All these seagulls fl y past my windows.
Fucking weird, right?
Right in the snow.
The way they moved, right up to the windows, glide
their bodies right by, then raise up, that’s grace I
I’d like to move like that.
Some people make mistakes but can move through
them, let them go and they don’t hurt.
They don’t cry in hallways and look like shit.
They sit in corners and keep it all inside.
But I can’t.
I have this wish, the way I want things to be.
And when I see it, in my head, it’s good, it’s good but
how can I make that…
I dream about it.
I wake up.
It’s a feeling.
Like there are all these possibilities.
But I wake up.
I lose it.