dear time

i am writing this so i can give you back your hands. run fast past the meadows and get carried away by wind or run like the shaved-back and fluffy-humped wildebeests of the serengeti. whichever you choose – just run. i am writing to you to return your boxing gloves punching away at the years in my lungs having me lose my breath over nothing. keep them. i want to remember such moments and this is only possible if i look away from you. just this past week his silence taught me i had no business being worried about time – that it will pass and he could ‘take all the time he needs.’ i felt a stretch as if my mind was shape-shifting into place – giving me a new belief to abide by. you are neither devil, hot-skinned and crooked-nose nor are you any angel, haloed and feathered. i wouldnt know what to consider you … you can keep your digital turn. we dont need it. we dont need an anniversary – nothing to mark that we have been together six years, three months, three weeks or three days and some change. keep those calisthenics. those quick reminders of aging and death, and anything that measures the present as a continuing past. and if anybody asks, i will refer them to you. when he lays by my side – you dont exist. he quietens for a length and i can hear you breath heavy into my ear – ticking away in my ear. bending my mind. winding up my patience. pounding at my heart every second with your minute hand. youll need to stop that. you will also need to stop asking people to ask me what i am going to do if he left. monuments are erected for his kind. stars align for his kind. you bow down to his kind. he has no regard for you. he treats you like a street scavenger not the god you are acclaimed to be. foreshadowing? keep that shit with your dials. ive finally dealt with time-travelling fantasies of bearing his kids, travelling together, taking a walk under the stars because i am too heated to talk and too stubborn to dare the universe, and dare-may-i-say a break up… as of today, as of now, no, as of this breath, i have stopped. because you make me mourn for long over mundane things, burying my mind in the cathedral bones of death, but love makes us live and no one lives by fixating about death, of skin losing elasticity, of wrinkles, and gaining weight – of make-up, of time… i always wished to be here, with him, and now that i am with him, i wont be fast forwarding anything – afraid to lose him. we will build memories out of these moments. of course a moment is time but we wont be needing much of you, let me not speak for him, i wont be needing much of you. let this be the last time i will have to write to you.

muse