The Preface to...

It's the epilogue to
nights watching the shadows of ceiling fans
with pounding temples and eyes that won't close.
To writing bucket lists
with an eternity of time to check off the empty boxes
and quieting the ticking of crocodiles
because they were never loud enough to be frightening.
To waking up in a cold sweat
when you remember that tomorrow's exam will decide your fate
To believing in things like algebra
and iambic pentameter
and theoretical physics
and fate.
Because it seems so much is beyond your control
your arms don't reach that far
and there must be something else conducting
the rhythmless crescendo of unanswerable questions
that play on repeat when you lose count of jumping sheep.
To being the victim of yourself
to writing poems about epilogues
to running out of ink in the pen you've been using since middle school
to shouting at the crocodiles to tick louder,
you're waiting,
but hiding under polka dotted sheets your mother washed
when finally, they do.

And it's the epilogue to nothing,
just like it's the preface to everything
because the clocks aren't broken even when they're sleeping
and you will always count sheep while you stare at the shadows of ceiling fans
and the headlights of passing cars.
There will always be the bucket list of things you can't do yet
but will do someday, or so you tell yourself
because it's not your fault the boxes stay empty
or are being filled with the hand-me-downs of faces that come and go
come and go like fifteen year old dreams you can't remember by your next birthday.

But something's gotta give, so surely there'll be an epilogue.
And ending and a beginning
to how you hurt and how it's everyone's fault but yours.
And you will write it on the same day you write the preface.