Something always slips away.
I smoothen rough edges
of the house,
the wind comes and takes away—
the bits and ends I most wanted to stay.
Something always slips away.
I collect enough plates and glasses
to host a gathering,
some call to say they are busy,
some let calls ring endlessly to silence.
Something always slips away.
I try to give you
what I never had,
you say you do not need
what I lacked.
Something always slips away.
Perhaps,
this missing has a weight,
heavy enough
to pull me through to
another day.