I laid them all out like cards,
but you played on the lowest alone
and seem to be eying the rest.
What’s wrong with my facecard desires?
I keep checking the timer,
keep forgetting that it’s not set to one hour or minutes
but the span of my life. So while it’s ticking
I know only that it’s counting down,
but from what, to what, and where we are
now, I don’t know.
You don’t seem disturbed by my anxiety.
Never have—and while it once soothed me,
I’m starting to fight resentment
and calling you hypocrite. Weren’t you the one
who told us? Weep with the weepers.
So why am I sitting here sweating
with you so cool?
At least respond to the king of hearts:
wanting to believe that you still want to play me.