It's two eighteen.
And soon it will be two nineteen.
And then two twenty.
It's all very consistent, this passing of time.
I hate that about you.
But you, two eighteen,
Are one of my favorites.
You're that moment when you have to contemplate
Whether to call this morning or night,
And that's all i can ask for, really,
From a thing so predictable.
You, two eighteen, are a time for climbing out
Of my window with only a
Candle, a double shot of espresso,
And shitty poetry floating out of
My shitty mind.
In the time it's taken to write this down,
Nine minutes have passed.
And you're gone, two eighteen.
I do sometimes wonder where it is you go
After your sixty seconds of existence.
And maybe i miss you.
Or maybe i just miss shitty poetry and
Timeless rooftop rants.
But you left me, two eighteen.
And so, i suppose,
None of the rest
In the end.
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Comments about this poem (2: 18 by sarah g )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(22 March 1941 -)
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