Ichigo Ichie

They say the blue hour is beloved by poets -

that moment when we have rotated out the sun's line of sight, but when its faint light still caresses the sky -

a deepening indigo, a liminal glaze.

I see myself, and you, in the wispy exhale of breath that escapes chapped lips late on a silent weekday afternoon.

A cold and utterly unique wind blows.

This Tuesday has dressed all in sparkling white - unfitting dress, we think to ourselves, for an such an occasion as this.

We spend our few minutes on this earth in liminal rage,

Trying to wrest a sense of pride, power, or self-worth from the cold, cracked, and empty hands of the other mourners at this long funeral -

which is, of course, our own. We have simply arrived early, out of politeness.

If the one thing that every moment shares is its rarity, then it would seem rarity is not hard to come by -

are we not swimming in it, drowning in it, never able to escape the unique and irrepeatable potential which sloshes to the brim of every moment?

And yet here we stand, lined up cold and unyielding as the frost-conquered earth below in our narrow, unfulfilled, and utterly tragic yearning -

not to see, but merely to be seen for a few of these rare, blue moments by our temporary companions.