Limbo
Is draping across two bus seats
At two in the morning
On an empty highway
Surrounded by vast grasslands
En route to Chicago
And praying to a god
That you don't belive in
That you'll get more
Than two hours of sleep
Or
Failing that
Wifi that actually works
In this silent, half sleeping
Microcosm

Debate isn't about scoring a win
Or coercing an enemy into giving in
But getting fellow humans to find what we hold in common

One day
You will wake up and the sun will
look exactly the same,
the clutter downstairs
will sound like every other morning.
Your back will ache
in the same place,
the dishes will lie comfortably
on your desk,
dust will continue to collect
around the books you touch
mid thought.
But your father will leave
and it will feel absent, not dutiful,
your mother will smile
and it will be empty and served with
cereal,
you'll find your dog lying cold and stiff in the laundry.
You'll know, undoubtedly,
though it will take years to settle like rocks
in your stomach.
You'll know
that for every other moment following this, until you die,
it will be a raw knife edge you tread,
between Awake
and Asleep.