40 Days 40 Nights

The bubbles know. Friday's almost here. It never listens. Or even tries to.

The past tugs on the present. Plastic braids steal my curls. And I'm not different anymore. Swimming in the sheets. Steering the pillows. Watching everyone else running under their checkered flags.

I hate these pit stops. How long they take.

The truth is there is no truth. Only the geometry of choices. The angles that determine where we'll meet. The distance and the arc in our trust.

I will be the rook and you can be the knight.

Checkmate something. Anything that isn't us.

Following the curve of the clover. Measuring the length of the ark by the depth of the flood.

It's always raining. Always.

But it still rains more when I don't know where you are.

Sometimes I will try to look. But there's so much distance.

I know what we are. Every wrinkle in this leather skin as we peel it off the steer.