Time rushes
beyond understanding
and there is no possible way
to capture it
or rescue it.
It has been a week
of a thousand days
a week
full of weeks
and years
all bundled into
rushed conversations
short stories
the slightest of impressions
jumbled thoughts
of words
of letters,
of small ink dots
and
neverending guesses.
And we wait.
I look up from
whatever I was doing
to have no idea
what it actually was
or what time it is
and scramble to figure out
if anything has changed
since the last text
call or
email.
Time
makes no mention
of us
and still we wait,
as hours bleedintoeachother
minutes become
both l o n g e r
and shorter
seconds stop
and skip
and speed
and t
u
m
b
l
e
yet we wait with a purpose,
as sometimes weeks are made of
sporadic small hopes
in between
the timeless waiting.