I could wait forever.

I could wait forever.

I could wait for mountains to move,

for ice to melt,

for fires to burn,

for enough space to be cleared between us to finally see you clearly.

But I won’t.

Because I’d rather be dynamite.

And I’ve blown out the wicks on enough TNT to have the time anymore:

Not to love myself.

Not to feel myself.

Not to hear myself.

Not to be myself.

I don’t have the time not to swing from crescent moons,

explode into stardust,

rain sparks onto budding wildflowers.

So I could wait,

or I could just go.