The minutes seem so long,
the second-hand drags like
fingernails in sand and broken glass,
I’m impatient to know the answer,
but I’m terrified to even ask.
Tell me, what point is there
in watching the vapour of my breath
cloud my vision, obscure with fog?
The truth we will discover yet.
I refuse to beg or sob.
Ache not for the present, but recall tremors from the past,
in due course,
is it right to ask?
I shall not flounder in my need,
in my desire to know,
better still lay the questions down to rest,
I have no right to request,
nor you any obligation to let me know.
Would functionality take over
if the seconds were given a chance
to catch up with each other,
suddenly, a minute seems too fast.
The seconds trip and fall on one another,
clumsily, then altogether.