Pocket blood

Time hides in folded away pockets.

Your breast pocket, holds that protector 

for all the broken pens you should have had the notion not to put there. 


Time hides away: it's what we make when there's something covering it. 

A notion of should be's and should do's. 

But are instead filled with willfull rebelion.


We remember the moments that caught us off-guard. 

The way the light hit a dancing person in off-white garb, 

The opening of a door or being face to face with a perception of beauty.


The honesty we might have masked if given a do-over, held us for time.

Time lost for one another, but time spent with the dime spinning, 

waiting to see where it would fall.  


And finally, we fall into this time. We fall again to words. 

Because words have held us for such a time. 

Giving us again and again the chance to pick up a moment from before or a moment now.


The rush is that time will allow for sharing space with words, and space without. 

Time will allow our eyes to lock. 

We will pull it out of our pockets, ink splatters and gravity,

hiding it away no more.

And then the only thing time will tell us is that should be's and should do's 

are only we two, for all time. 

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