Rose, Prose, Poetry

Improv

This isn't scripted.

This is improv.

I say one thing,

And I immediately start predicting,

Casting my bets, and gambling on possible responses,

Hoping and praying that it's the one I want it to be.

But I still place some casino chips on the responses I don't like -

Those nasty motherfuckers who sponsor the worst of my distorted thoughts -

Simply because I want to gain a little something if they win.

I could use a tiny win in the midst of a trainwreck

If it happens. I really don't want it to happen.

This silence - this small, small lapse of a few seconds -

I'm filling it to the brim with hope, fear, and pages of analysis.

Microexpressions pass across your clear eyes and I panic,

Flipping through the pages in my mind to draw the parallels.

The stakes get higher. Bets get higher.

Anticipation grows like an excited murmur

And anxiety causes my bones to rattle,

A few last raucous thoughts shouting out a few final cries

Before the response is fired.

I breathe.

I take it in.

The money exchanges hands, and everything has landed.

Some thoughts were right. Some were wrong.

Overall, another lukewarm result.

Joys were disappointed and devastation was merely teased.

I'm grateful for but a moment with the resolution,

Peace lasting for but a second before the next interaction begins.

And then, well then,

It's time to act again.