i let the hands of another clock run over my ribs, and someone watches me kissing palms to prove i still use
life-lines. i wake up and i'm not on time but i'm not lonely and someone's taped down my spine. my
lungs will stop moving around if someone talks to them, but no one leaves messages by the phone, all the post-its are laid out in
strips along my arms and i need a match because i burn all notes to my head. i'm a crisis that you didn't avert
or a blurry picture you gave to your grandparents, and i take keys from drunks, carefully, i swear, their
expensive leather steering wheel covers sliding in sweat under my calluses. i stop at every light even if it isn't red
so that i'll get home too late and miss dinner. i'm saving room for the space of the second hand in between my jaw and my cheekbones
and i don't eat anything i've ever felt, especially not on our stupid tone-deaf tablecloth.