Incomplete

We wake up counting minutes
in our heads and still we stay
up late. Nothing about tomorrow
is decided and yet it’s still our fate.
Everything is so much less important
when we aren’t awake I almost wish
that sleeping was the hard part.

You see her look at you through
the dark, her eyes like little glints
refracted through the window
and then reflected off the shine
around her iris.
Deep down she’s worried that this
will be it, and that everything
you work towards will be pointless.

It’s cold outside even under the sun
and when the day is done
you will have to decide what is important.
Cardinals and blue jays debate
the significance of red shift and blue shift
from the branches of trees barely growing,
and there’s no way of knowing
how any of it plays out
beyond this memory of something
incomplete.

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