I am a rock

I want to come to dinner and am too aware that I cannot climb over from where I sit, in the middle of it all, and climb into a car and change my plans and turn up with wine and hello's and I didn't plan on coming but here I am's.

I am too aware that I am not the person I thought adults were when I wasn't one.

All that I am is bone deep and carved into cartilage like cave drawings. I am meticulous and ordered. I am a train schedule that runs ten minutes behind but runs and stops anyway. First there and then to there and then some other place on a track scrawled in pencil onto a clock that is ticking and is always ticking.

I am a clock and my feet are the seconds and I am responsible for the world not falling from where it is.

I am a fool that knows better.

I am an idiot that knows no better at all, wide eyed and waiting.
Almost always waiting, steady and still as a lake somewhere on the outskirts of a past that is already too far away.
You are a boat. Onwards and out, out you go, frothing foam white tracks into the water and clapping like an engine.

You are a plane.

You will be there, sighing your yesterdays into your past, and holding tight around everybody's wrists as they float about you in the air; making sure they don't disappear altogether, into the sky.