You told me once that I was made
for this life. That my skin was more hairless
because of it. Or that my lungs were overly-anxious.
Too easily excited. How I carried an entire world’s air
inside my pocket. All the time. I was made for this life.
I didn’t know what you meant. Didn’t care to.
In the parked car I could feel the world being digested
by this beast of “Time”, driven by "Change" burned into our blood.
We handle our jaws like steering wheels,
so our words have become slow with “rules” and “signals”.
You hold your fists like seeds:
burdened and blistering from the bulge
of so much uncertainty. I have never seen this place before.
This derelict playground your face has become.
My eyes gather humidity to themselves to curtain this.
The moment is coming undone.
The bus will not be patient.
My bags shiver against the trunk’s darkness.
The parking meter is a clock of all things
that will never be said beyond this brief universe.
And your hands still clasp themselves tight, as if praying
to something you promised you did not believe in.
Your jaw holding pressure enough
to chew a diamond, or re-shape our lifetimes.
Say something. Now. Speak, then…….