timetable

there’s a point—
your lungs will exhaust their maximum
your vision will outlast itself
no amount of fabric will hide you
your feelings will pour out of you
if they don’t, in time, you will detonate
those feelings will splatter across every surface
like rainfall
your hearing will fade 
until you can do nothing but listen
you will no longer be capable of 
believing you can draw plans for a future
or fashioning a reality you refuse to partake in 
or listening to a touching song
or thinking you and them are fused at the hip
it will be dusted away
—where it will not