I give myself five minutes to let out
the words hiding under my tongue, getting
tangled in the stitches in the back of my throat.
I spent too many minutes of my life
wondering what if, and not so many dreaming.
I close the book to my mind and
set it in the corner, because I know four
minutes is not enough time to heal.
Sometimes I forget how to spell, I
forget verbs but my sentences will drag on
as a banner of self-expression. I write
letters on post-its because paper is too dull
for me and I wish the world could see through
my glasses with me for the last three minutes.
When you catch my eye I will tilt my
head down and blush because eyes are the
windows to different universes that I may not
want to share with anyone yet. I always
pictured meeting my heart at a coffee shop
but for now I'll take two more and tell you
I am married to books. My mistress is
a pillow to rest my head on and really in
this last minute what is left to say? I
can't explain myself any other way and I hope