There are days with you where I swear the clouds are painted in pastels.
Where the sun seems to rise seconds after setting.
My heels finally cling to their own rhythm, instead of subdued chimes.
Holding your face in my hands feels more like a coping mechanism, than a cry for help.
Now, I am begging for your eyes to stop looking anywhere but as far as mine can see.
When an old love speaks of adoration in a new setting, they carve a little piece of themselves into the clockwork of my existence.
Maybe this is why I learned how to use time wisely.
But does the ticking ever seem to sound too loud?
Too many hellos that never actually end with a goodbye.
The constant replay of every final conversation.
A wait until the next word.
The breath in between every sentence begins to be too long a pause.
Maybe the wind really can carry thoughts with it’s blow.
A reminder of something you assumed you’d finally forgotten, until the temperature drops a few degrees.
I hope this all makes sense to you.
And if doesn’t now, I hope it will soon. Just listen closely to the wind.
Lorna Lamon on May 26, 2020:
Time almost stands still in this beautiful poem. Loved it.