like when we told
ourselves we'd be
there for each other;
i'll clean up your
splattered brains
if you take out the
trash and do
the dishes.
wine-stained eyes
and sweaters wet
from the rain outside--
flecks of possibilities hitting
the tin panels or shingles,
                            or glass.
but
pages don't turn themselves,
and kindling isn't suicidal
or into pyrophilia.
planets don't just
           fall
into line like soldiers
or silly wire hangers,
it takes time.
and i'm scared,
       (terrified)
that in my
waking hours
mortal minutes
squandered seconds
and so forth,
i'll miss it.