There’s a function, sensation stuck
somewhere between bursting
like a water balloon and wishing
the alien hiding in the stomach
would just tear through already.
Time freezes: you’ve got the luck
of a Kennedy, the limelight of a killer…
and that’s when the realization–
torture of not being in your arms,
not being able to sink into night
finding what really matters, where
it’s going to end–fills to the brim,
or crackling like old vinyls under
skin. It’s a dangerous way to live,
but it’s the only way we know.