ode to never having enough time by Alana Dunlop
Updated: Feb 4
i don’t know what to do with
everything i know about you.
about the cialis, about the
the open-mouthed tension
in my stomach that can’t
reconcile what it means to
stay and what it means
when you’re giving me the option.
my thighs can’t recognize that
every time you touch them
it might be the last time your
fingers ever come in
careful proximity to mine.
i’m not mad at you
I’m mad at the universe that rips things
away from me like a child
that wants a toy.
the universe that never gives me enough time
that brings you into my orbit when there is
no possibility for us, when there is nothing
but hoping your therapist has mercy on me,
nothing but a transparency that torments me
because maybe I don’t want to see
your insides yet.
i’m not fighting you i’m fighting this
part of me that can’t let go
of anyone who i have selfishly imagined
a future with; who i have pulled into my
conception of the universe,
affectionately gave you a nickname and
memorized your birth date and
told you about my teenage self that
would’ve been so proud to see the outline
of the city from mont-royal,
been privy to the sounds your stomach makes.
i can’t fix the part of you that wants to
maybe that’s why i feel so strained to take off running.
i think that you might need me,
in a vacuum,
in a timeless shapeless feelingless room
where my blood isn’t on your hands.
where my hands aren’t in a knot
grabbing for something that hasn’t materialized.
I don’t know if i’m with you for you
or for me
and fuck, i’d be able to answer that if
only we’d been given enough