She yawns. He yawns. They yawn. We yawn.
Clockwise roam delinquent. They walk in circles overhead. Thus seem to get anywhere. Lost. Are lost. And they know.
four in the morning they are there waiting somewhere outside the forest. But meanwhile the needles reviewed the map, are cast blame to each other, insult, and still stumbling, frustrated and with a growing desire to sit there and mourn and mourn.
His eyes alight, hidden on the clock. Hers, too. Behind those leaden eyelids are unfortunately, and there is annoyance and discomfort.
know.
know that takes an hour and a half to go overnight.
know that this figure will taste eternity.
They know they have to talk about.
know that the routine has been stripped of adrenaline than any kiss or caress could have.
know that there is not anything that will wake up.
Not even the coffee they drink in small sips, perhaps because it is hot or perhaps to have more time for something to keep busy.
know all this.
But occasionally pretend otherwise.
And so happens a parade of masks between them.
slide your fingers over the other's arm. Aim to hold kisses. Goofing off on drowsy and short dialogues in the hope that accrue in a conversation.
And nothing.
Nothing.
For his eyes again, again and again, the clock. And in the distance between now and four o'clock.
Their masks can not hide that behind them there yawns and boredom. For the desire not wait. If there before four o'clock, there will be later. But that's the last of the masks of their parade.
