always you forget to remember to wait. always you remember after you have already forgotten. remembrance of the wicked, memories of the sullen. always short-fused, quick-tempered, out of reach, controlling neither the comings nor the goings of your breath, just extending—pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling, testing the boundaries of elasticity, wondering when the latch will give out, whether this is even a test of patience.
your hands move on the clock towers of your arms. three marks upon your skin call for nails slightly sharper than usual. you scratch as if to rouse your mind, which has spent days, weeks, and months in a whirlwind or a haze. you look at the reflections in the window, shapeshifters and shadows from the tender nook of the illuminated, moving to the noise of the men, all men. never have you been so keenly aware of a woman’s spoon grazing the side of a pot.
the strangeness that becomes of you neither inhales nor exhales.
it is the not knowing where to get your coffee beforehand, so you drink tea instead.