Going, going, gone

 

he burns through brain cells on every plane trip,

in every meeting, during dinner, on too few hours

of sleep.

maybe he doesn't realize our lives are going, going, gone,

fading like the water drying off a Buddha board, an impulse

purchase that speaks to me, each brushstroke 

can be replaced only as long as the palette

is wet, seeking a new taste, a texture,

a sound, an embrace.

plane seats do not embrace,

nor do meeting chairs, the ink will fade

from documents and she will walk out of the

restaurant holding her Victoria's Secret bag,

emptied of its vanities onto your hotel bed,

nothing there but cold trinkets.