Temporal Trees, oh, and me.

I kept looking down at my fingertips, drumming them on the edge of my dress. Beating the mint green lace to the tune I have never actually heard. In a room full of people, gazing through pleated glass–wishing there was more outside inside.

But my reality was that time was no longer the same; it didn’t speak the same way to me as it used to. Everyone sat there eating, enjoying each other. They were genuine and happy. I was not absent; I was there. But in so many ways, time kept telling me something else:

“come forth, move.” And many more indistinguishable things.

I laughed at the idea of the daily. Tomorrow is surely Monday. But what’s in a date? What is in a year? The days don’t make it. Not the months.

The memories.

Why do the number of days matter? Do they bind us to each other?

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it is me that finally feels released. Time is another something else. The sun doth turn; turns us; turns itself. But these minutes to click, they aren’t counting to watch. We are. Those things make us take note and check our habits:

“I wasted an hour doing…”

Snooze another few moments away.

Away from what? Put things off. Do too much too soon. And why?

So I drum my thoughts onto myself, imprint them on lace. Time telling me that me and time got this thing going on. We aren’t dancing in years–machinations of to-dos. Time knows I count on other things. Not my fingers, they’re still drumming at my dress. Time knows the timing of my keys. The placemat inscribed on jeans.

Their seconds counted and counted. My checkbook misses the stroke of my pen; it reminds me of day and date. I didn’t have the time; I missed it. I “missed” it by being sometime else.

My gaze was up, marking the waves in the sky for every shade of eyelash. They weren’t much alone, just strands. Then again, a lot can be said in a glance.

They see me lost in the sky: airheaded:

“She’s changed.” “She’s not the same.”

And I am. I started seeing time as just another language my dialect needed to tune. A bright moment in the night; how starlights are really suns stuck in the far away.

The trees never ask for anything. They stand around me, growing proof time speaks all things strange to those that live off rain.



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