When you left the room, though it seemed empty
and cold suddenly, the way it can, the weather
notwithstanding, and so pointless I
wound down like a mechanical clock, every breath
another second slower, and everyone bored me,
most of all the ones with souls who sweat,
rubbing their two sticks so hard with no hope of fire
I could taste eternity, it wasn’t death.
When you showed up, I didn’t come alive,
Pinocchio-like, all six senses sputtering
like the kettle in the morning, stuttering
like the boy with a conscience at the story’s start,
and leap across the room in emulation of
my heart my heart my heart my heart my heart.