This…

Still Light

He asks me
“how many years?”
but it reminds me
of how I might
want to start a story,
and honestly,
“I cant remember,”
I tell him,
because time
always does this
weird thing
when I’m there
within his presence,
and to be honest,
it feels more like
“500 years,”
or moments,
where time stops
like memories,
or maybe
its just my
heightened anxiety
because, I really
can’t seem
to help it,
where sometimes
I want to just
scream at this world
who rushes, rushes,
around me now to
“slow… down…”
because everyone’s
in such a hurry
when all I want to do
is have a conversation
about how it felt,
when time stopped
when he entered
the room.

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