It seems to me that time is slipping;
Moving quickly and it’s already

Wednesday?

Have I ever felt time the way I felt you.

Will I grasp the waste of the winding clock?
Will I consume it by train of thought?

Day in. Day out.
Queue the violins.

It finds me first
In the space beneath the lungs
A rapidly cycling movement
Trickles down, seeps like a sponge

The pressure lifts my breath up now
Faster
Faster
In and
Out

The feeling I have punches my gut,
And claws its way straight to the mind.

I wish what I’d found weren’t so devastating.
I wish I didn’t find it this time.

The musty smell fills my nostrils and I am

Frustrated.

Lines don’t go where they belong and the paint won’t dry.

I love the brush like I love the paint.
Solemnly and with respect.

Smoothness rounds my movements
Shakiness fills my hands.

I want to feel how the oil feels
Powerful; purposeful.

But what remains of me is the canvas.
Blank and achingly abismal.