it ain't over until the fat lady sings

we are all infinitesimal, 
thin lifelines on palms, 
asinine and tactile, 
we are fog on crowded roadways

and i dare you to tell me otherwise:
watercolor doesn't run like how
your eyes drip their brown-soil tint
down your cheeks when you lie

so go ahead, 
tell me my future isn't boundless
and i'll never launch myself into space
or float away one day and not come back

but i bet you won't, 
because we are not sweet cake
and child-hands, 
we are bitter and older and something that 
we didn't used to be, 
something that we never expected

and i know we didn't grow up
the way we thought we would

yet here we are, 
eyes that blink back worlds, 
and wrists bending for cool metal and trackpads 
that we manipulate with deft fingers
and stretching veins

though my handwriting may be messy
and i forget to dot my i's a lot, 
it's still legible and damn you if you can't 
make out the words i love you in my senseless patterns

newsprint paper mocks me from my portfolio, 
loose lifedrawing sketches of minute-long poses
done in gouache and willow charcoal
the torsos stare at me from the off-gray page

god knows they'll never go anywhere
but does that matter?
and cold metal against my skin, 
it burns like it's boiling tea spilling over the edges
as though it's emulating last week, 
the days water-warped and crinkled like aluminum foil

and you know there ain't no rest for the wicked, 
or so old sayings tell us, 
but our feet are skidding out of control, 
heels sliding on polished hardwood floors

so one day my hands with disintegrate, 
become nothing and everything, 
space dust for the new generation 

and how i hope that the new owner of 
all my molecules
figures out how to use them - 

wait for the final aria. 

The End

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