these minutes make the days jealous
the way they pass like a sunrise without practice
slow and fracture
something about time has lost its poetry
the last time i kissed you
i was trying to find it
somewhere under the rise in your chest
or the craters in your palm
the texture of your breath
and yet
all i find there is another reason to wait
will no explanation
why time
plays its tricks
why this distance
keeps itself flexed
pressed hard against my chest
like a reminder of its strength
its hold
so instead my matra is a countdown
i sing it every day
1 day 2 hours
tomorrow,
we start again
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