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Mar 8
Rain sprinkling on our glasses.
Wind rattling our coats.
We were walking down an unfamiliar street,
Gravel crunching beneath our feet.
You smiled but then you stopped,
A curve that wasn't fully stretched.
You pulled out your hand from your coat pocket,
Began counting on your fingers.
Counting the days we have left.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Stop.

Maybe if you stopped counting,
Numbers would cease to exist.
If numbers ceased to exist,
Whatever we have left,
Could only be measured by moments,
Not days,
Hours,
Or minutes.
But moments.

In each moment,
A baby is born into this mess of a world,
But is readily embraced by it.
In each moment,
A schoolgirl is crying alone in a bathroom stall,
Waiting to be saved from isolation.
In each moment,
A couple shares their first kiss.
In each moment,
Beer bottles are smashed,
Wives are beaten,
Children threatened.
In each moment,
A dreamer stops dreaming,
A poet stops writing.
In each moment,
Hellos are idly uttered,
Goodbyes are not said.

How does one count every moment,
On fingers that are numbered?

Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Stop.

You didn't understand.
How could you?
So in that moment,
I grabbed your hand,
Held it in mine.
Our fingers intertwined.

Five.
Ten.
Jing Xi Lau
Written by
Jing Xi Lau  22/F/Woodbridge, VA
(22/F/Woodbridge, VA)   
568
     Jasmin, Fawn and Gods1son
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