Asymptote

You have a dream that
you’re run­ning and the harder
you run, the slower you move. Or
you are ever colder, each mo­ment
you feel is the limit but then
you are colder still. Or hot:
The bead of wa­ter
rolls down the rock face, a wet trail on sun-burned
stria that never 
quite reaches your parched
lips. Whenever you are
about to get ahead your car
throws a rod or your fur­nace
coughs black. Two steps for­ward,
one step back. Three more to
take.

You watch a pot.

It is a week be­fore she comes
home and sev­eral weeks pass and
it is still a week be­fore she
comes home. There are so many ways 
I could tell
her I love her with­out
ac­tu­ally say­ing it.

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