I told myself I wasn't going to message you
anymore. But your face
comes to me in my dreams--
in my anger and frustration--
in my absolute moments of joy
when I look at the face of my son.

I told myself that's it. It's time to move on.
Don't press send.

Then I find myself
contemplating and composing
and rearranging words
just to hit backspace.

Erase? How can I?
It's too hard trying to keep it from you.

Even the most mundane of tasks
often take me back.
Little things here and there.
That first touch in the lobby.
That first prolonged stare.

It's too hard.
It's too hard to get the clock's
hands lined up just right,
when you're always running
a little behind.

I always think I can hear the ticking,
especially in the Quiet.
But I am wrong. It's the beats.
It's always been the beats.
And they've always been
for you.



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