Seven minutes and seven minutes only
You say to yourself, Everything is vapour,
hence why you cannot feel any of it.
You beg, Please let this be the reason -
please let all be vapour (you continue)
and not simply out of my reach,
as a judgement of you.
You say to yourself,
Let this be the regret you deserve made manifest;
the gentle, blinding sun.
The jagged familiar streets (you add)
leading to the cold, familiar seat.
The whiplash effect of the questions
pouring out of those who don't know -
who couldn't possibly understand - that you,
here, are poisoned with regret.
You pause, then continue: But at
the very least,
you can learn something from this -
or at least that's the whip
you chastise yourself with.
You say, Now I know why every time someone dies,
someone cries for more time,
If only we'd had more time! (you cry aloud).
You continue, Now I see why
so many see the final event as half-baked, anaemic.
You add, They wish so hard
that they had tried harder before -
sweated, bled, cried,
but never hesitated.
You pause, then say, Now I understand
why the sun never rises over there,
and the moon dangles like this (with a gesture).
I can feel now why the wind
is so punishing (you add quickly),
and the sun so ravaging,
and the cold so entombing.
You pause again, then continue, And I can see why
when we woke up in the middle of the night,
we did it together;
You explain, The first thing of the real world
to fill each other's eyes.
You continue more quickly now, Now I see all of this
but you are gone.
Just cruel moments ago (you add).
You continue, slower, I held you in silence,
straining for the hold to say the words
choked back by unreal pride.
You recall with a smile, You kissed my neck,
the solar winds of breath warming me.
And then you let go (you add, then pause),
and nothing could be said.
You conclude with, You walked away,
then not real.