Time

This time, you say. This time things are different,
because I have changed, you say, to my fickle ears
and darting eyes. Fool me once, shame on me.
Fool me twice, why I won’t go back there this time.
This time, you repeat, I’ve grown. I’ve read. I’ve prayed.
I’ve taken. I’ve given. I’m living. I’m prepared.
This time. Sigh. I get it.



Get it, I think. Does he? For the last time was like flying
on a wild magic carpet. You have nothing
to actually grasp on to ensure your safety, and you trust
that it lands in heather valleys or dry river beds.
But that was last time. I won’t go back there this time.
I’ve read. I’ve prayed. I’ve heard.
I’ve taken, I’ve taken. I’ve taken.
Those last words are what trigger the silent alarms
raging in velvety fog. I have to listen
to every single word before becoming seduced
by your (snake) charming ways.



I won’t go back there this time. No, this time,
I’m the one who gets it. I pull cautiously back,
like a cat just beyond arm’s reach. I pull back
so that I am far enough from you to possibly pounce,
or pull entirely back at the blink of an eye.



This time. No last time. This is the last time.
I’m listening while you are talking, and I’m seeing clearly
into your translucent eyes filled with icy pools
of water disguised as crocodile tears. You are sorry -
you say. And I believe you, but you cannot help yourself.
And your words tell the whole story, not in the way
that you think. This time. This time is the last time.
Not next time, Just this time, last time, time to end things
all together. This time.