Coffee that has stewed
for half an hour or more.
I gulp it down;
I will wait.

As Mumford and Sons shrink themselves
small enough to run chord-fuelled races
down my left and right headphones,
Strings plucked to the rhythm of lust,
I will wait.

As his fingers wonder what they were made for
other than pressing morphine buttons, call buttons,
as her skin cries out to the muffled sun
for freckles, pigmentation, anything,
I will wait.

As God’s own finger dents the atmosphere:
causes a tsunami which barely splashes his knuckles;
As I feel the earth spin one more rotation
and the hands count down 24 hours more
I will wait.

And your endorphins shake hands with each other
for the last time
and make for the exit.
Your blood cells feel their final bullets judder and backfire.
And as the amber glow in each tiny cellular window
goes dark,
you evacuate in the silence
between the bleeps of all the lives put on hold.

It’s the coffee that wakes me-
lukewarm, hitting my own roaring bloodstream.
My thumbs trace the sensitive inside crease of your arm,
and as the last nerve flickers through the clinical air,
I know that you would have told me
to stop waiting.


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