it's strange-- those grey days when still
you squint against a hidden sun

sometimes,
i think i am nothing
masquerading
as someone

sometimes i think i am an angry cat in a box

sometimes i think that i am only capable of feeling
two things:

adoration and sadness

i wonder where the
sprawling expanse of
middle ground is

grapple with square hands and still
can't find it

these moments
are the only time

i am not angry with time

maybe

(and i find thus
that i am capable
of three
things)