217 Hours, That's How Long I've Known Her

It's so early
I'm forgetting
what she looks like
when I haven't
seen her
for a couple
days.

I want to
see her all the time

to memorize
her quicker than
she is disappearing.

I catch
what moments
I can

like flaming snow
from a firework
shriveling to ash

in my fingers.



Boredom, with its
table of queer
instruments,
deals out its agony.

In a German accent it
urges me
to go outside,
to busy myself
to look away
so the hours
can slip
by unnoticed.

I refuse.

I want to be alone
with the pain,

the palpable absence,
the only feeling
equal
to her presence.

This pain
is the proper
debt for
what
she will bring.

Out of
the dark, her
face comes
in a flash.
She is beginning
to live in me already.

The memories
are slowly fusing
themselves to
my flesh.

Imagination is remembering
a future
that never comes true.

I can almost remember
the future

the future
where she hides,
waiting.