Why the Lover Is Lonely

When it flies, it soars.

When it dies, it’s stale.

We converse and pick apart.

We reverse and return to old ways.

Becoming

begins to resemble

Destruction.

And our tears bring the fields their shallow breaths.

We feed the harvest frostbite.

We murder all precious nostalgia.

In the spring of our affair,

we knew it wouldn’t be long;

We knew it couldn’t be long

Before the clock forgot to care.

Or was it us for the clock?

The ticking in our collective ear is too much

for the little things.

So today we dig our graves,

move piles of faulty wires,

and dusty shrapnel

to find solace from our inability to savor

the simple and slow pace of growth.