I’m in your arms,
I typed this while watching the digits on my computer clock walk backward.
Don’t let go of your hold
Just allow me to fall asleep slow
When my head wobbles I’m nodding-off
I’ll fight this slumber until I mimic the dead
Blood travels toward my head increasing the weight
I’m dreaming of jewelry – crawling closer to fate
Your flesh is my cradle; rock me ‘til I wilt
Just rock me ‘til I wilt
I might have been delusional for two reasons: I was writing a love poem and time read earlier than when I started. You might wonder what it’s like to fight time. It’s like speeding toward the falling sun.
At lunch today, I ate a meal that vegetarians might accept from a carnivore without a shake of the head sideways. I hit all five food groups. I wouldn’t have been afraid to sit near the veggie-group today at their table nearest the refrigerators. Every once in a while they fight for the little machine that spins meals and ultra-blasts it with nuclear heat. Usually, they throw rice patties in there. Sometimes they snicker when someone heats baked chicken in the microwave; then their stomachs growl.
I ate my sandwich and extras quickly to make lunch feel longer than it actually was. There’s a quiet secluded office that always seems to be free of occupants just west of the lunch room. The room is not hidden or hard to find, it’s just one of those spaces that bring squinted eye attention onto the enterer. Even when the light is on, most many assume that it’s empty. Whenever I sway the door open to exit, I can feel my cloak of invisibility fade into uselessness. But today, I read ten pages of the book I’m reading for class Saturday. I’m stealing moments throughout each day to avoid reader-suicide. That’s just when a massive reading plunge is unavoidable. I sometimes find a way to slip into a self-induced coma when those become a reality.
There’s truly no escape from the cameras and roaming employees in this building though. Luckily I’ve chiseled my way into the hearts of the security crew. I’ve built what I would imagine to be a lost cousin type of relationship: I’m accepted, watched for mishaps, and allowed to be the dysfunctional black sheep of the bunch. Only this black sheep has to play the role of not knowing he’s a black sheep.
So if you must know, I never really finished the love poem I was working on. Or maybe I’m still working on that.