And I will try to be vague and figurative,
So you can relate to as much of this as your imagination
Allows.
You are so predictable,
I can always tell which pieces are your work.
I can predict
That you will tell me that I am just the same, that I am always
Exactly what we long to be.
I want anything but to become this predictable,
But I fear it’s too late to prevent from happening.
It’s indicated in my constant repetition of imagery
Through a chain of poetry.
It’s indicated in the way I lay out, in words and imagery,
How my week has played out,
And how it effects the way I feel.

All I need is somewhere to write this down,
Because the books were lost in the chaos of changing locations. Late,
But we got home eventually.
We got home for Christmas.
But it doesn’t feel like I thought it would,
It doesn’t feel like I think it was supposed to.
I feel somewhat like I did yesterday, but without the commitment.
I feel the pressure of the day to be in a better mood.

The countdown began while I was still sleeping, and
The impatience and the longing
Started coming to an end for thousands
Long before any of this began to subside, and will continue
Long into the night.