we wake up and absorb it,
tightly write dry plans,
best laid to go awry.
i exhaust all my options now,
turn off the curling iron,
blow out the last candle,
tie up loose ends, mark my calendar.
transit apps quantify me home,
but i still overthink breathing,
always late, or too early,
there’s no timer for this life,
no remorse for the lists we’ve made,
or the poorly scheduled TTC train.
control is a bottomless pit, and
i drink every last drop, knowing
you could wake up tomorrow
and feel differently, and i guess
so could i - so let’s try,
with whatever control we have left.