cliche, I know –
considering exodus
but counting on escape.
death is real,
and it's right around
the bend of even my elbow,
so enter every house as poetry.
only the future knows
when you will yell at cats,
or give up;
it's dumb, but it's how love exists, too.
maybe this is The Matrix,
and this typing is
some other sentient being
typing out my typing.
all I know,
on this midnight morning,
is that I am here,
pinching myself to prove my stay.