As if a perfect vision means the day is in order, I watch with calm the news of murders.
As if the recent months weren’t enough, I pen a confession on a postcard.  
As if taste isn’t a warning, I take another swig.
As if virtue has a single definition, I fashion my mouth into an agreeable shape.
As if experience is not a reliable guide rail, I summon a supernova of scenarios.
As if habit, I pocket a fist of pleases.
As if the holidays are supposed to be otherwise, I swim in fever blue.
As if the rush is a symptom, I quote the wisdom of quagmires.
As if the arc of wanting, I release.
As if tomorrow is another today, I brace for the lonely impact.
As if light could be held, I trace the fault lines on my palm.
As if hunger is an excess, I swallow the wishbone whole.
As if the body is a lack, I speak in third-person.
As if offense is an unwelcome mechanism, I stance a stone exterior.
As if waiting is the only option, I put my phone face down.