You are now as you will be tomorrow, yesterday.

Days are as seamless as water, as blood.

Dilluted as my lacking faith.

Without hope, does one diminish

and grow thinner?

Will this orgy of cells that hold me together

disperse after they have grown tired of each other,

betraying me before I have died,

before the disease of my consciousness

caves in like a neutron star

and proves fatal?

I can not longer sense anticipation,

it is gone,

like forethought,

like you.

Even the little servant boy

of my delusions

has stopped coming by

to say that it has been put off again until tomorrow.

You were my Godot,

as absent as hope.