It’s never a wise idea to keep
all of your eggs in one basket,
especially when the chickens have
fallen in love with the gay pigs.
With each passing conversation,
the world slowly trickles,
like a ticking time bomb,
but only I can see the numbers
count down from infinity.
I could smell the sunset crash and
hear the salty air whenever I laid
my head upon your crevassed chest.
I’ll let your hot glue seep out
of my ears, melting my rubber mask,
forcing me to hear the words
I did not want to ever hear.
I’ll sleep with both eyes open,
like they teach you in the army,
but somehow I’ll still wake up
next to you, under your arms,
with the whole house smelling
of scrambled bacon and crumbled eggs.
Tip of the Tongue Syndrome 