It is. the end of your day; the start of my weekend.
You are. driving home most likely, maybe cursing the traffic, maybe the town, maybe smiling in the rearview mirror at your son, maybe singing to him while he screams bloody murder.
I am. soaking in a tub, staring at my blank screen, writing this poem, feeling my feelings.
This used to be. my favorite time, when our lives finally slowed enough to wildly connect our shallow and deep thoughts, strung together fast and filled with typos on my end and imagery
that doesn’t feel the same now.
So I. wait. Listen to the seconds tick, tick, ticking.
And I. wonder. Are you home yet? Are you sitting on that bright ass rug? Are you? Are you?
Unready to close this screen,
Not fully in my hands,
I hold. onto this poem and smile. about this and that and that and that. It used to be easy this walk. down olden days with you.
Now it is I alone who walks.
I. yearn. for that familiar breath of words that lit up my screen daily.
Tonight I wait. Listen to the seconds tick, tick, ticking and learn the new path, the new stride, new everything.
And Imagine. you listening to your ticking clock.
