I can fix this
I tell myself every time,
afraid that inaction will guilt me harder,
panicking because I’m sure I can do something – anything –
But my intentions never turn out how I imagine,
the end is always the end
and I do nothing to delay it.
Sometimes I speed it up.
I can never be sure,
and so as they drift away in my hands
I feel as cold
as if I’d stood still.