Give Over

Leaving for Warwick,
still a little motion sick
from the B train this morning.

Reading and writing papers
while commuting
is the new black.

It is Tuesday.
I am a fish on land.
A sea creature with legs.
This must be how whales feel.

I’ve got to get back where I
can breathe.

Everything moves.

Deadlines. Deadlines. Deadlines.
If I don’t sleep soon.
Then what?
I want to ask.

Don’t write about it darling.
Delayed gratification
a sign of maturity.

I fold in on myself like dough.

The sky is grey,
wet with possibility.

My mouth is dry,
skin cool to the touch.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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