Time

I wish I were Father Time.

My spindly hands would weave,

The silken strands of our lives,

Into moments I’ve never seen,

Into instants I can only feel,

Into days which mean far more than years,

And with my pincers, I would cut the fabric,

And fold it until eternity consumed it.

I see one now, a thin sheet of time,

A sliver of the life I live within my mind. You’re there too. I don’t know you, but I do. We’re sitting in a car. The music from my phone is in a gentle blast we can feel more than hear coming through my car’s speakers. Yes, it’s my car, not just any. Up ahead, we can see a shelter, not far away at all. Fluorescent lights paint the faces of our friends a paper white. But we only see two faces now, our closest couple. They are cleaning, tidying the messes of the long-cold drunkards rolled in mats on the floor. They’re working. They’re helping. They’re happy. They’re together. I look at you before you notice, and I stare in silent wonder, my face unmoved. I see you for the first time anyone ever has.

Lunar and far-off electric light mix on your skin in a blue-white in the darkness. You’re left of me and staring straight ahead, enraptured by the lives of those before us. Your neck is what strikes me, delicately draped with long brunette curls not thick enough to cover it all. I reach out and brush them aside with my hand. You look at me, turning your head with eyes closed. You open them, and I feel the intensity that went unnoticed by the couple. I want to touch you more. I want to use my wretched hands to defile and glorify you, to prize your angelic beauty but break your wings with human imperfection, to love you with my heart and hate you with an animal passion to rip you apart. You make me feel like a man, carnal urges tearing through me and hunting for you; you make me feel like a woman too, driving me quietly insane, making me quiver inside and starve for your touch and words. You make me feel like more than either: human. Not one of a pair, but a being as a whole. For you are not my better half, not my completion, but remind me that I am complete. I feel myself when I am around you. But the dream fades, the vision darkens,

And back I slip away,

Out of the light,

Into the night.

I am not the Master of Time,

Not a Maker of Dreams.

I cannot bend these fantasies of mine,

Into anything beyond but wishes of things to be.

My business is not the weaving of the world,

But lamenting those which should be but never shall.

In truth, I know nothing of which I speak,

I only feel what I wish I could see.

I reach out for something in the darkness, from my bed. But there is nothing. My eyes dwell on the barely glowing, drawn blinds of my window. I wish that they would open and shed light on the woman who could be sitting in my chair. But it would blind me, and you would be as a phantom that had never been from the start. For the blinding has already happened, and my eyes were unaware. I already know you are not there. But perhaps, if the dark still holds the room, you may be. Perhaps if I cannot see it, the empty air is not suffocating me and the nothing is not drowning me alone.

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