We don’t live very long—
the days string all the small things we’ve done, and the prayers between our breaths melt the undoing throughout the years
we don’t have time to reconnect
or think through the happening around us—
listen very closely to the hypertension building in the walls closing in
it’s death around the corner, and you are scribbling memories in yellow notepads that will get burned in housefires
we smell of tented skin and decades of walking on streets where dogs piss and the nervous stranger smiles—
there is no right moment to realize you never stop learning and if you wait too long
you’re just going to keep lying to yourself 
and soon you will run out of stories to tell
and soon it will be too late to clean the dishes
soon they will be permanently done by someone else.

















