The Session Date:

The Session Date:

by Ariel Sullivan

Your body is still alive with longing,

every limb humming someone’s refrain.
In the miles you were gone, the second hand

kissed the minute hand, their accelerations aligned
in their delay. Every medium in mimicry as
whole paradigms became frenzied slips.
Your good morning text, your ellipses buzzing
and nothing in the queue. I’ll see you soon is a furrowed
wrinkle in their tongues. They will want to remember
what color your shoes were, if your footsteps made
a certain sound when they touched the floorboards,
what the inflection was used in your last greeting.
Was hello like a bookend, supporting the balance
between the edge of the shelf and the dictionary
or was it almost weightless, as if it were drifting
through the morning with no measured introduction?
The prayers are conflict as they fill like sand in your
veins. Spilling softly down the conduits, hardening.
The sand eventually dehydrates, anticipating the break.
Then hollow. Shards of glinting grain, reflecting every
synonym of fatal. It is a mortal flaw to eternally smile.
There is a time clock written on everything and it’s always
counting down from one hundred and twenty two.
Sometimes, without warning, it refreshes and a few years
get shuffled around. Rearranged like an armoire or dresser
drawers. A glitch in the universe leaves you with twenty-five
pillow shams you need to get the best use of.
We’re all scratching our heads, wondering if we
should replace them or leave them.

You are the tune of a motorcycle in this new life,
you are the image clicks of an eyelid ViewMaster,
you are every other consideration.
You’re midair and everyone wants to catch you.
But it’s your session date and it’s last call.