The clouds drift aimlessly
as the buildings glow,
under the faint rays of not-yet-
sun-set. The light is still bright
over the crowds, yet to
streak the world with its richness
of pink, gold or purple, but
the birds fly low.
There is a heaviness
in my eyebags
and a restless fluttering
in my cells.
I try to pin down a single
emotion from the many I
touch upon and flit away from,
a butterfly resisting the stakes
of a catalogue.
The day is ending,
but it is not over
yet. I hold up my hands,
and thousands of possible
things to do spool
from my fingertips, each one
glimmering in the almost
light of the sun, stretching
past my window and into
reality, if I would just
tighten my grip and hold
on. But if I do, all the others
fall, and I have to feel the
absence of the connection
held moments prior, have
to consign myself to
the choice I made or give
that up too, to both of which
time will simply bear
witness. I sort out what I can do,
what I wish for, try to aim my efforts
like an arrow toward the horizon.
But there is no confirmation that
my aim will strike true,
and I am stricken to loose
arrows in all directions till
they lay haphazardly by my feet-
all the while,
my fingers burn.
I hit my targets, sometimes,
and I gather them close.
Proof, of what I’ve done.
But sometimes, when
the day is over and I’ve
laid them out underneath
a dark sky and a bald moon,
they appear dull, medals
that have lost their shine.
Those times, what should be
satisfaction tastes a lot more like
desperation. So I clutch
the strings tight, feel them burn
into my palm as my fingers dance,
counting them to make sure
they are still there. And as
the sun wears its evening gowns
and steps into its daily death, I curl
into myself and feel the strings
wither, trying to cloud
the emptiness in my palms with
the numbing noose magic of
a ‘tomorrow’.
Just like that,
over and over again,
I watch the day
and all my potential
die.
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