Halcyon

chronological alibi

well, here is the truth
aren't we just polite liars,
wearing honesty like a
chronological alibi?

why do we offer
clockwork excuses
to fate,
with plausible deniability?

where are the escrow holders,
who redacted our destiny?

maybe caution is just
a longing that refused to sow.

why are we like this
living with the ache of almost?

calendar-shaped denial
or clean-handed cowardice
I can't tell which cuts deeper.

but I know this much:
we are fluent in both.

we called it timing
because neither of us
could teach our mouths
to say the other word.

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