poetry · Recent

Time Travel

Years have passed
in the seven days that elapsed
since I was home.

A week ago, I loaded my car
and got onto the highway
heading west, again.

But it can’t be just a week.

This place is a space between
it feels like a month
or maybe more
just like the miles that aren’t really miles
the yards that stretch on
seeming farther than they are.

Silence descends and
after a few seconds
it seems like an hour.
I can’t speak.
My tongue weighted with words
no one would hear if I did say them.

I talked to a friend just this morning
but it feels like so long ago.

Days fill hours so weeks fill days
and I ask how long until days
really are months?

Reality instead of a mind-trick.

Passage of time–meaningless
because an hour
can create the closeness
the intimacy of years.

A month, with some, is a lifetime
while a year with others is just
time misspent.
Small talk
dragging on filling empty hours.

Two hours of touch say more.

Time travel seems real
moments slow and quicken
and not with any rhythm.

Moments that make my heart race
do not race by–they slow
even while they do not last
do not let me stay, lingering
when I most want to.

Ticking of clock–just a construction
man-made time
not reality.
The real measure should be in
depth developed.

I’ve spent years with you.

Never mind what the clock says.

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