By Emily Roy

Isn’t it all so monotonous?

On the edge of yesterday,

I find myself remembering the evenly-spaced tally marks,

marching in single file.

They have nowhere to go when they follow this glossy plastic ring;

analogue framed merry-go-round.

But that silent ticking will always run in circles.

Perhaps it is comforting.

The minutes are just trying to keep going like the rest of us;

And for that, I will not think of them harshly.

For that, I will lull my head, a daffodil in forward winds.

I hope the ever-lengthening split ends

splay like wilted bouquets across your dented shoulder.

I hope I can lean into the present.

To love is easy.

To love is to have fragile, flaxen pieces of you

flee with the strongest gale.

Petals yellow and gone.

The uphill climb is choosing to let it linger.

To pull away from one quick, tight embrace

and remain turmeric stained.

Deciding to love tomorrow is easier when

I remember the ticking is running in circles.

My bones grate into tight coils

when I think of the analogue circling sprint that is lingering with you.

But it is not monotonous.

These yellow shards flutter, saffron kites above

and I would walk the winding stairs to your heart forever.

Forever is a long time, but the time will pass anyway.