It is the darkness of night and the soft glow
Of a screen that force me to realize this is it.
When my brain stem ceases to send messages,
Then I am gone.
I will no longer recognize color,
So bring on the colors,
From the leaf-strewn gutters,
The windows of second floor apartments,
The loud fire escapes,
The black iron balconies.
God, just push them on me.
A wave of fight or flight moments
Of intensities so hovering in their greatness,
So buzzing in their touch,
So bursting in their nobility.
I can feel it.
None of that is organized.
The organized moments give way to these desolate hours
When we finally understood this is it
And balk at our limitations.
Without them I cannot walk.
With them I cannot fly.