Seconds
Two seconds—when you first meet your lover’s gaze,
when you open a door and hear Surprise.
Just before you hear the condom broke,
and when you swallow wrong, choking.
The moment a bullet finds skin,
just before you beg a preacher for forgiveness.
The held breath before a newborn screams,
and the silence after someone stops.
It’s the instant you hit black ice,
the soft laugh caught mid-forest.
When you ask your father for the keys
and he hands them over without a word.
The opening notes of your favorite song.
A stranger’s eyes that stay a beat too long.
Panic that turns your stomach to water—
and the realization that it’s already gone.
We spin on this tired rock,
living like we’re owed tomorrow.
Then everything rearranges in a flash,
every hope we’d carried twisted new.
It doesn’t matter what’s been seen—
two seconds is all it takes to unmake a life.
When you help someone rise,
when you waste someone else’s time.
When you turn your back on a friend who trusted you,
when your lungs draw their final pull.
Every word that cracks someone open,
every silence that means more than speech.
Every lesson you hand down or withhold,
every want that claws you awake at 3 AM.
We spin on this tired rock,
living like we’re owed tomorrow.
Then everything rearranges in a flash,
every hope we’d carried twisted new.
It doesn’t matter what’s been seen—
two seconds is all it takes to unmake a life.