This morning, the seasons took back dimension,
switching themselves out of turn with your plans,
and I wish I’d seen your face in the science — solid
to liquid. He wrote ((though I know you’d rather skip
this step)) before he sang of hurrying to wait; waves
now mimic the gifting of Winter to Spring and solidify
over our closed lids in a bed-too-small, tracing along
a triple-guessed arm. I forget to mention my tendency
for time travel, insisting on forcing focus to my inability
to alter my already-acteds; apologetic though your
“sorry” basket is filled full-up from pasts I’ve yet to visit.
Narrate — align the self-serious with laughter only
achieved by children and take on all but the tail of a dog
you once knew. I mean to say: Yes, burrow; cells never
collide, but in my certainty of defying chemistry, I
unhook those you fastened to mine and wrap them in
boxes for the days when your head hurts and you
can’t fathom forming words.

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