The days that are most full are the days spent pretending we weren’t waiting.
Our organs churn like machines producing twice their expected amount
Of free-flowing adrenaline, which we give a task to circle, rather than the drain
Of lonely, gut-wrenching “what-if-tomorrows”.
There’s the waking struggle of swinging your feet from your bed and testing your floor
And hearing a scream bubbling forth from the lethe, tickling at the daybreak,
And knowing that you must wrestle, mash, and toast it into a tasty breakfast morsel
Lest it overwhelm the dawn with restless shadows.
We drag the lengthy hours through the mud, fatiguing their thread, living mercilessly
Until they no longer resemble time, but immeasurable intangible everythings.
There can be no counting of patchwork days, only the art of making them count
What a productive little distraction, so I can pretend that I’m not waiting.