I wait for our clocks to run out for you to open the last door left and turn to run, because I want-need-have-hope too much. You’re all gnashing teeth and curt words. Whole canid, hackles raised, throat full of gravel. Keeping mark and claim around wrist and throat. I hear our time ticking in my chest; “Hush, hush,” you say, “it’s not a countdown.” But I feel notches along each rib Where tiny clocks keep time of us. So, I grasp your arms and pull hoping you’ll jump in and wind them at my breastbone before the world rips you back out and every one chimes on me.