Days.
Really, only another week until it starts winding down.
Send smoke offerings to heaven.
I don’t have the time or the dedication to be famous.
Two nights in a row, I feel better.
Have to slither down the drain and into the sewer below,
then I start to even out. Call in sick.
Six hours. I forgot how much things can change when
you’re not looking at them every day.
Forty two minutes. I get tired of looking at me, indirectly.
You’re the one looking at my face.
Staying awake hours too long so my hair dries properly.
And because I want to listen to the
fish and the dog and the cat and the walls and the floor
and you. Inhaling and exhaling.
The same air that poisoned me only last night. Right here.
Twelve seconds. Time travel.
Crooked smile. Gladly spend another two hours in his
company. But I can’t. Weekend
is over. Back to life. Or sleep. Or stupor. Or death.
Whichever fits the best. Times up.
The world is ending.






