Am I ready to take on myself. It is my foot holding the door. Not letting in and not even a thought for getting out. It is nice to hold back.
Feel the ache, until it hurts. Until: We, it, this is over. Frustration of holding on too long propels leaps that bound us. How can such progress come from unacceptance?
We decide: No more laters to never. Only now. For tomorrow will not linger for a kiss. Press deep and become your trumpet. Or fret till death.