Begin at the beginning

and then propel yourself forward

into the nothing that is the future

forming, twisting chaos from which all is born. Jump back,

from end to start. See cause and effect dance.

You’re late, of course, again, for work, for school,

for that kiss you never stole from the girl

who held your heart in the third grade,

when you still kinda believed girls and kissing

were icky even though you loved her and let her

chase you around the jungle gym, knock you to the ground,

and stamp on your notebook. You’re late,

of course, you’re late. Always, always.

“Always” is such a strange word,

stranger than “never,” which never existed

except in the dark empty place, where 

there is nothing, not even air to breathe.

And you’re late, but it doesn’t matter anymore,

because even if you keep chasing her,

you’re never going to be the person

you’re supposed to be (at least as the world defines it),

you’re always just going to be the you

that’s you, here, now, rushing out the door

to the car, to the cab, to the bus stop,

and that’s enough, you’re enough,

even if you never catch up.

* * * *

In response to One Minute Writer promt: Late.