Time.

Time is a fickle bitch, I find,
Laboured breathing in grief
Stretches gelatin moments into speeding bullets,
It will pass whether or not you let it,
And chances are, you won't even notice,
Time.
I have been waiting for resurrection my whole life
And here on the precipice
So close to opening eyes,
A quivering lip whispers
Give me more time,
So I hold my breath and revise my heartbeats,
Scold my pulse and swallow my sadness,
Paste on a smile when I can,
Or excuse myself and find some distance
To lament this awful element,
Time.
If you douse a flame with water
Too frequently,
The embers become muddy ash,
My eyes forgot how to flash
The sparkle starts to simmer
Here sits in my throat a familiar feeling
Of fear and doubt,
Rejecting itself,
Shudder up vocal chords that seem to say on their own
I care for you
And nobody wants that.
I don't want that.
I can't want that.
Time will tell if my rotten throat
Will soothe itself,
If my sharp horn will dull itself,
If my thoughts and words will bury themselves
Into denial, shame,
Sorry-I'm-doing-it-again
I have never loved any other way,
In running out of Time
But you have the rest of your life to live,
So I buy a watch that I never set,
Go by the moon and sunset,
Sleep like the dead and race time to her end,
I'll meet you in your dreams I said,
I haven't seen you yet though.
I haven't seen you yet.