I Hope I'm Wrong: Poem

Photo courtesy of Silly Quasar via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0

Maybe these years always screech

like the first few grains of sand in an hourglass.

Hitting like jittery eye contact

A tight embrace

or an isolating raindrop.

So, it’s no surprise that every second 

should seem like a summer’s day, 

or an onion, or an orange.

Or every feeling as deep 

as the pacific ocean.

Or that there should be an honest diamond 

just below every surface.

I hope I’m wrong. 

I hope that screech never fades to a thump.

I hope I feel the even weight 

of the first and last grains and 

that I never find my jaw;

the one that powered through the concrete one evening

and hasn’t stopped hanging open.

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Edited by Hania Ahmed, Creative Editor