I saw minutes fly by like birds in migration, flapping wings; they soar beyond sight to another hemisphere.

Only minutes forever disappear.

Fifteen of them at a time fly right on by.

Soaring near my face; One leaking shit on my cheek like a delicate opaque tear.

The next one, Number Two, buzzed nearest my ear with a fearful ticking of finality.

The Third flew into my mouth, making me choke for air; daring me to fight for a Minute.

Number Four won’t back away from my hands, as they work to remove Number Three; caught between my throat and a molar.

Minute Five arrived just as alive as the rest.  Sinking claws into my scalp, then pulling away.  Leaving a talon in my skull.

This is bullshit.

My ass is getting kicked by minutes- Limitless and passing

Beyond recognition, each sort of leaving their mark on my skin; my heart and my brain

I’ve lain down enough lines tonight on this subject alone.  I feel like I own it.

Man, you’ve blown it.  I am still waiting on you to show up.

To not, let me down, but I frown at my attempt to be with you.

I should be in my own bed at my own house.

It appears you are out for the night, I should turn out your light.  I should board the bus back to my place.

I have an hour to decide; to make a decision.

I keep listening for your car to keep me glued to these sheets.

I’m defeated and tired.

Minute Six licks my cheek gently where Number One left it’s mark; then swiftly with stinging fury, smacks me so hard, I saw so many stars.

I never saw Number Seven, with a club in one hand, and in the other; a frying pan.

A single, a double, a triple whammy.

Damn, I must be the one tripping now.  I can’t seem to control these minutes and their rising aggression.

I get the sensation they wish they were being used by someone other than me.

They’ve declared anarchy on my sensibilities; meanwhile I wait for you to pull me though this lonely game.

It’s so much better with you here; to smack Minute Eight in the ass when he passes gas in your nose and mine.

It would be fine to have a partner in crime at this particular time.

Especially when Number Nine pulls his shit and tries to poke you in the eyes.  I would grab him from behind because I like your peepers; it’s too bad that I just lost mine when Number Nine got me with out any back.

Alone I still sit, thinking you must not want to be with me, a past regression into negative emotion.

Whoa, that must have been the influence of Number Ten; him and his rotten fortune cookie.

Look at me and Minute Eleven; Number Sevens’ twin… Again I get knocked silly, floating with stars.

Should I go back to the scummy bar for an ale before I hit the bus.

I’ve traveled enough for one night.  I have been let down  enough for three eves in just the matter of hours.

Mean while, Minute Twelve hid on the shelf, until I looked away in recovery.

I didn’t see him throw those books at my noggin; You’re usually blocking those too.

Thirteen beams with joy at adding to this display , by air raiding me with water balloons and foul language.

Fourteen pelts rotten apple cores, vying for my attention.

Boy, I’ve learned nothing but how to block these punches, and it’s hard when they come from every side.

Hence, Number Fifteen, sixteen times over, barks and bites like a Doberman Pincher.

Twelve Midnight and thirty minutes…

A half hour to catch the late bus, time to switch gears and quietly leave, each Minute a failed attempt at following me.

Lost minutes are no consolation for you holding me.