High in the Hollywood Hills, a coyote howls another moon to pieces.
To the ground, those glittery jewels fall, pawnshop pearls now free for the taking.
All the small hells beneath our tongue crumble. To no one in particular, we say how we are grateful for this shining breath and our next one.
Night whispers back how we are not alone. The skin of its voice soft to the touch as it says it will not leave us.
I go to my window; witness shadowy figures gather up those moon pearls then move on.
So many habits I’ve developed and demolished over the years.
The one habit I refuse to break—hope.