When I feel,
It seems wrong.
The puzzle pieces do not match.
The nightmares don’t quite catch.
The butterflies just fly through the net.
I am constantly late for that sunset.
Everything is just a second too late,
subtle as a ladybug on a mountain,
yet loud enough like thunder.
It’s stopping at orange,
on an uneven number.
Watching a countdown
and missing the one.
We continue to live
but it’s a bit crooked,
a bit askew,
but we go on,