Tag: time

Timeless

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

How does a social construct
alleviate the emotions I feel —
how can time belong in a place so sacred,
so full of love and rage and sorrow?

I wish to stop time,
to simply exist in this state of
grief and triumph —
to exist knowing more about myself
and how, even *this*
does not define me.

*this* was hard,
and I did not know why —
I could not comprehend
even with the time I spent on it.

It wasn’t until I stopped thinking of the days
that I began to hear my voice —
my dear younger self —
that I understood that *this*
opened a door for me to sit within
and listen.

{punctuation inspired by a dear *friend*}

Travelling Alone

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

I walk toward the security gates
feeling the weight of a thousand stars on my chest.

Ahead of me is a father-daughter duo—
a father, dropping his daughter off;
a daughter, leaving her father.

I feel connected to them,
understanding the situation too well—
the mixed feelings of nervousness, sadness—
a different type of aching.

He walks her to the start of the security line,
making sure she has her toothbrush and plane ticket,
reassuring her that it will be a smooth trip.

He looks nervous and full of sorrow,
hands shoved in his jean pockets;
she looks dejected and tired.

She walks away looking at her phone
and he watches her the entire time,
moving as close as possible to the black rope separating them.

I wish I knew more of their story,
observing it unfold parallel to mine.

I follow her through the line,
watching her approach the guard,
ticket in hand.

She passes with ease and throws a quick, worried glance over her shoulder
towards her father whose face is too far away to interpret.

I smile with crinkled, blurry eyes at the story unfolding,
step up to the guard, hand over my ID, pull down my face mask,
and thank the stranger.

Will we ever know?

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

Time passes by on a paper clock,
the hands follow each other in a syncopated rhythm,
grasping for something
that they can’t reach.

A bird calls out on each ticking hour,
expecting a return call,
but it never comes.

A boy sits in a wooden chair,
staring up at the clock,
waiting for something to change.

He grows older as the clock’s hands continue chasing,
the paper yellows–curls,
and his voice deepens,
yet he never uses it above a whisper.

Another cry in the night
brings further silence,
The boy—now a man—sits,
waiting.

His stare bores into the fading clock—
right through the heart of time,
but it never stops ticking,

Ticking in time with the rushing blood in his head
and the tapping of his fingers.

He feels close,
close to the answer he’s seeking,
but it’s still too far away,
lingering out of reach.

“Time,” he calls out,
“please, I beg of you…”
but time remains silent,
the last of its species:
a breed that died out with nothing to answer it.

The man,
reaching the end of his life,
asks time once more,
“Wait,” in a hoarse whisper,
“I almost understand,
just give me a little more time.”

Time responds,
understanding him but knowing it’s too late,
“I’m sorry,
but I can’t wait any longer…”