No one ever wonders if the tick of a clock will tock. It is inevitable.
When a swing arcs high in the air, there is no doubt that it will whoosh back to the ground.
The foamy breath of sea on sand is known to return again and again and again. Lover’s kiss.
Put a pan on a flame and listen to the hiss of searing metal.
But who can love predictability?
Pick up the phone to bluster through a whirlwind of choice; a labyrinth of lies; a web of changing thought.
Slip on the dress that once he loved and now he hates. Guess the motive.
Inch your claws up his chest and touch your lips to his. Gauge the tautness in his limbs, the urgency of his return, and gamble on lust.
Every moment keeps your heart beating even as it breaks it.