Their time pours like a waterfall, our time trickles toward the sunset. Our time drips in the dusk from the edge of the world into the dark abyss of the Pacific like summer raindrops on the petals of a corn rose. When the dawn comes, our time shivers across the west in the morning dew of a thousand green fields where a billion blades of grass tremble in the cold before the sun washes over them.
A junky’s time is tangled between past and future.
Yesterday we basked in the warm glow of the sun and the green shade of your garden. You squeezed my hand and you held your breath as you watched the hummingbirds flit from your daisies to my lilies, moving so fast their lives skipped frames. Tonight I went outside to face a cold, dark, starless sky. The garden walls are crumbling into the dead grass and there’s nothing left but a pile of dirt where your daisies bloomed. Tonight, I can’t find you. I don’t want to remember why. Every night, when I close my eyes to see yours, I won’t have to forget what I don’t know.
Let their time flow like a river. My time trickles toward the dawn.