I can’t believe this slow pace of life.
The stillness of the lily pond.
The way ferns propagate.
The time it takes for my skin to heal.
This absence of speed from my life is a considerable version of my intellect set on paralyzed.
Yet the dust underneath the light fixtures still remain while the sound of the bass presses on.
And this captivity sits inside me like a hurricane.
I miss when you used to accelerate my heart.