Time spills out of my hands;

sands of time.

It is the waves 

kissing the shores;

one, two, three, four.

Constantly chasing each wave ahead.

It waits for no one.

New Yorker on the go. 

I am, so tired, of

searching,

wanting,

waiting,

for a way to slow,

time, 

down.

Hold myself close,

while another,

wave,

crashes.

My feet are cold.

At which rate does Time go?

The waves move slow or they come quickly.

Gently lapping the sand like a puppy with their water bowl,

furiously crashing like a tsunami or  

a wolf. 

It feels as if it is much the latter than before.

Can Time slow back into a puppy?

I do not like wolves.

It’s fickle.

It cannot make up its mind.

It wants to go fast, yet slow;

swift yet patient,

harsh yet clement.

Time is like watching the moon rise.

It controls the clock.

I look up and it’s all gone. 

And I sit and watch.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

If I could,

I’ll take out the batteries of the clock

to watch Time

die,

similar to the way it controls my imminent death.

Time owns it all.

Perhaps Time is sleeping

realizing with a jolt that it overslept

races to go and get to work

perhaps that’s why time goes so

quick.

Perhaps Time is not the problem. 

Perhaps it’s me. 

Perhaps Time does not love me.

It favours girls who know they are girls.

Or boys who know they are boys,

not the ones in between,

not the ones unconfirmed.

It likes regularity and normality,

binary and chronicity. 

Oh Time, oh Time. 

If I could, I’ll beg you,

to love me,

as lovers do,

and then maybe we can be in harmony.

I’m twenty-four steps behind this losing race.

Time, please come back to get me.

I’ll be sweet and kind and all the sunshine words.

So please, slow down and wait for me.