Two (of two)

four.

five.

six.

it has been seventy-six minutes since I have been lying on this bed,

but the clock is still ticking.

time has passed

but it’s not passing.

sigh.

with each passing second the two hands get farther away,

it’s the kind of certainty that seems close.

with each passing second, they get closer,

it’s the kind of certainty that we hold close.

sigh.

the clock is still ticking.

but is time the same for both of us?

is it dragging for you like your feet on your way here?

or is it frozen like the words in the pit of my stomach?

will nothing be enough to fill up this space?

or do you need words?

more words?

sigh.

it’s been long since I’ve been staring at this false ceiling

and the false stars stuck on it.

fallacy; such a beautiful word

in this upturned world.

how far away are the stars from here?

if I stretch my arms, will I ever reach them?

or will I have to get up and tip toe?

after all that I put in,

will they come crashing down because of a gentle touch?

why does gentleness feel so harsh?

sigh.

it’s been long,

the bed has grown as cold as it was when I’d found it.

I thought I’d leave it warm,

but it’s only wrinkled.

if they could, the sheets would have left an imprint on me,

but I have already been marked.

sigh.

stiff airport chairs

that leave my neck stiffer

or this warm duvet wrapped around me like a chain…?

if running away feels like home,

will I ever reach it?

sigh.

when it’s time,

bricks and baggage will be our legacy.

broken things can be kind to leave you.

can be cruel to leave you

with something to remember them by.

sigh.

one person.

one conversation.

one bed.

one home.

one crack.

one time.

one plate on the table.

one person.

if it starts with one,

it also ends with one.