Incessantly (goes on)

What’s the story behind our eyelashes, 

our finger nails, our incessant need to bite 

and chew and scratch and consume and package up,

pick up, discard, discard, discard, 

the reason we need oxygen and (processed) love, 

and water and (processed) food, sugar, sugar, love,

a body to hold (onto), to scratch, to make love to, 

to have love made to us, to kiss, what’s the reason 

we need sleep, the reason we deny it, 

the reasons we can’t, 

what’s the story behind our veins popping out 

of our skin, the reason we have ten toes and funny 

bones we always have to hit against the edge of 

the most pointy of tables, why are we always so close to the

edge, on edge 

what’s the story behind the table, its four legs, 

our legs, the knife and the fork, the woman who meets man

who meets woman

the reason we still worry about 

manners and friendships and the way our persona (not us) 

is perceived, 

not us, not us but them, the reason we worry about

wrinkles and clocks, wrinkles and socks, cellulite, loose skin, 

dirty clothes in the washing bin, 

the passing of time, the ticking, the ticking, this tinkling sensation 

when we think, when we think, over and over again 

when it’s over what’s left, when we leave

what is left within, 

what escapes the earth when the body is buried within. 

I think a lot about the end. 

Maybe this nonsense will make sense, in the end. 

Maybe I am scared, 

maybe I am lost, 

maybe I am too human to comprehend, 

maybe I am, maybe I am not. 

Maybe this nonsense means I am way too human 

to digest

the silence of my own body, 

the absence, the nothingness, 

when everything else, the wheel of circumstances, 

of molecules, probabilities, of molecules, probabilities

and dust, 

when everything else, the universe, its reasons, 

the universe, this birthplace, this deathbed, 

continuously, incessantly 

goes on.