Short circuiting and all you have is sorry

Golden travesty on shaking fingers
was a whisper of I-can’t-touch-you-any-longer
that you had hoped never to hear.
But when clouds become too burdened to cry
and the sky is fists of frustration,
trampled intelligence is really the only outcome
plausible.

I am not your stop signs
Not yellow or red or green lights
meant to pause you for a moment
then free you the next.
If that’s how you witness, how you see
then stop hitting the break.
Semi-conductors don’t hold shadows the way I do,
I am responsible only for the potential held beneath my skin
and I’ll not stutter and close when you
feel you need a breath.

Seasons aren’t forgiveness or excuses
or please-just-listen-I’m-sorry.
Stop using them!
Please and Sorry are unsteady bridges
Used too often
Repaired too little, dissected and trembling.
They aren’t solid things
Aren’t steady reliable letters interlocked and waiting.
I think I’m done waiting too.