In the last exhale
Of another half.
Time’s hands,
Little and big and antsy thin,
Rocket past—My wrenched reaction
Delayed like the sound-boom
From an atom bomb. Yes,
There have been detonations.
With you, a myriad of exuberant threads.
Of floating content. But also of blackened
Leather angst—wrapping,
Constricting my finicky neurons.
Sparking Questions—
And the hope to never write them.
Smeared in giddy battles
For that beating pulse—from kiss
To capillary. Flooding
An already washed out shore.
Yet I ujjayi through that sun salute,
Stride another to-do.
Dictated by the wrenching hands. Poor clocks,
Always on the brink of the future,
Yet never able to pause in the present.
Similar to my essence.
To give and give—like the acid
In batteries. I am a wench—
An incarnation of the verb: to please.
Absurd thwarting label
The bauble contradiction
Of language—the wrench
For each dramatic nut
Fastened for my story.
Told through your expressions—
Your presence. An occupation
In a cobwebbed heaven.
Where I listen to the compartment
In your chest—Wondering
How long I can count
This rhythm in synchrony with that
Of time’s hands.
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