Time.

I am scared of time.

I'm scared of the way that even when I close my eyes and breathe deep and slow it hurries on.

I'm scared of the way that it only gets faster and faster and carries me along with it, and how my fight is entirely in vain against its powerful tide. 

I'm scared of its glare, that won't allow me to look where I'm going.

I'm scared of the despair that brings me to my knees at the stubbornness of time's one-way highway. 

Bus of time, please could we go back a few stops? My friend got off too early. And I was looking out the wrong window for a while. And I just want to ride that other bit one more time. Please. 

I know you're not gone.

A lump rises in the back of my throat,

the desperation is a tower surrounded by a bridge-less moat.

Sometimes it feels you are a memory trapped in the past,

and then others a soul which time itself will not outlast.

But as I stand at the edge of this pier,

waves crashing violently, threateningly near,

I hear your voice not as a sound,

I feel your presence as a song of memories echoing between the heavens and the ground.