There is a word coined
for the traces
of water left by a glass
on a surface, yet we did not know it
existed, even if we used
to wait tables.
All we had to do was
to have the urge to ask,
but we are who we are
because we are passive.
We just wipe.
Did you remember when
we used to believe in Schroedinger's cat, and letting the sleeping dogs lie?
Back to when we traded
cutthroat questions on
answering machines
and hopeful words behind postcards even though
our post offices were faulty?
I missed that.
For now, our careers on regretting
and divination are long over,
we now carry our belongings
as a matter of fact.
Our poems don't even rhyme
anymore, and our verses are prompt.
There should be a word
for that moment, when we assure
ourselves by waiting on calls
but deep down we knew
we are only afterthoughts
we would only hear now on
answering machines, like how traces of water are always there
on surfaces, yet we don't know how to call them properly.
And sadly, all we had to do
was ask, but we only
wipe.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
