You say, “solitary motion in the blink of eternity
fails to represent me”
in this voice that scratches fingernails across a blackboard
you say, “tomorrow wasn’t supposed to happen”
like a blown-up story line wrapped in perspective
creatively-enhanced with smoke-ring-stained ceilings and
vodka residue on the carpet
disappearing behind a trance of forgetful dreaming with cracked and damaged brains
closing your eyes like one who meditates
well, that’s just you incognito

you drink nostalgia from a coffee mug every single morning
blaming your late-night indifference on my lack of consolation abilities
as if I jackhammer your face in with dismay
every evening when the sun sets
(you, you’re smoking vanilla cigarettes and trying to quit)
and each morning you yawn and tell me,
“tomorrow wasn’t supposed to happen.”

secretly you memorize lines of infinity
floating quotations of to-be classics
but no cruelty can convince you to behave in a manner that’s safe
and you said it yourself
(in your grease-soaked voice),
“tomorrow wasn’t supposed to happen.”

filled me with dismay at the very thought but you were too busy to care for the love
for the life you claim can never be replaced
without face
you dreamt of a ninety-year safe place
that would never be a thrill to me but to you, the Great Master of Eternity,
and you claim that “tomorrow wasn’t supposed to happen.”

me, I can’t wait for forever.