hi poem By Me the Goat ok.. .... . six hours left and you're looking at the ticking clock in class, watching the hands move in a delicate way— short, quick, easy to miss, like the sound of the bell that let you out of the last class you'd ever sit through inside the bathroom there's a girl crying— crying about something small and petty and you want to laugh, almost, as if you aren't standing in the same story, just with a different ending she looks at you and tells you your eyes are beautiful because they are and you look into the mirror and you know they're beautiful but this is the last time you’d ever see with them five hours left you go on a walk with that one person— they're nothing special, really, just someone you accidentally built a lifetime with their face holds everything: card games, silly jokes, the nights you swore you wouldn’t remember but did anyway they're rambling about something small and something petty and you can't help but think how they'll never know where you’ve gone how all those hours meant more to you than they ever needed to know so you look them in the eyes and tell them their eyes are beautiful because they are they stumble over your words, laugh like it's a joke, like compliments are something foreign you smile say you'll never do it again they brush your shoulder and leave four hours left you look at the world like it's trying to prove something— the leaves are still falling milk is still expiring cars still stop at red lights like obedience even matters you forget, for a second, all the cruel and vile things that claw at the edges of everything because the world doesn't pause it never does and maybe that's comforting or maybe it's not three hours left you start noticing details— the way sunlight sits on the floor like it belongs there more than you do the way people laugh too loudly at things that don't matter the way no one is looking at you not really and you wonder if disappearing is just another thing the world is good at ignoring two hours left your hands don't feel like yours anymore everything becomes borrowed— your breath, your voice, your name you think about saying something— anything— something big and loud and unforgettable but all your words feel small and petty and isn't that funny? one hour left and suddenly everything is important the sound of your footsteps the air in your lungs the fact that you are here still here and you almost turn back almost decide that maybe six hours wasn't enough time to understand what it means to leave but time doesn't bargain it just moves zero hours left and the clock keeps ticking like it didn't just count you down like it wouldn’t do it again for someone else and somewhere a girl is still crying about something small and petty and somewhere someone is laughing at a compliment they don’t believe and the world— the world keeps spinning like you were never here and somehow like you always were
