You don't really know where it comes from
-- only that your life can feel like summer is sizzling inside you and it all starts melting.
Can't you tell it's still Autumn?
-- the bitter blade of confusion in your chest.
Is that why you speak of these things only in sighs and whispers?
-- heavy tar starts dripping through your fingers faster than you can catch it.
Where did the golden leaves go?
You see, it's never a good time
--to ask for their hands to help you catch the slipping things inside you.
Is that why you read him poetry instead?
It is hard to tell if you have been whittled down
-- to what you do for people.
Is that why your humor is almost always settled in the shade (dressed accordingly of course)?
You see your hands
-- a failed utility.
Is that why you run?
And your heart
--Well at least you've tried, by now, to laugh louder than
the faulty ticking.