Float

My motivation has fizzled into apathy. I have been pressing ahead, getting up at 8am on Saturdays to read textbooks and churn out poetry before walking to work for 8 hours of folding laundry, washing bodies, serving casseroles, and passing pills.

I am running out of steam, and it's only September. I'm a sprinter. I don't run marathons.

And why use my legs? I'd rather float. I'll dream my way from class to class. I'll be a dream.
I'm growing thin around the edges, fuzzy, out of focus, and soon you won't see me.

I'll be the memory of sleep. The warm-bread smell of sun. The lazy breath of wind.

I'll let the end of summer soak me up, and when it leaves this week, I'll go with it, wherever the gone things go: the mysterious way of lost socks, unspoken words, and faded days.