Old
Habitual, rote faithfulness
Adherent to rotational, gravitational patterns
Latchkey Love
Learned avoidance, practiced to perfection
Like clockwork, the thrill won’t work
Time, you are becoming
Old

Old
Habitual, rote faithfulness
Adherent to rotational, gravitational patterns
Latchkey Love
Learned avoidance, practiced to perfection
Like clockwork, the thrill won’t work
Time, you are becoming
Old
Sonny, (I can call you that because I’ve grey and am much older than you)
You don’t look like a man who’dve (proper grammar? I surely don’t care)
Said what you said (but you said it, and it stole my heart)
In Chapter 25 (chapter twenty-five., to be precise)
Or even a man who’dve been able to “focus” this long (though you lay claim to seeing its virtue, so I’ll believe you)
Given the amount of time (I’ve spent more than my fair share of it and secretly believe it’s ubiquitous)
And number of exhalations I know (I know) it took away
From your habitual daydreaming (I’ve a penchant for it, too)
I could (sadly, I will) continue sharing unrequited love-jabs here
But it’s late and the (glorious, but damned) mosquitoes have made their entrance
So I laugh (always — most often at myself), and tuck your bookmark (thanks) in my bra strap (ha) instead of your book (your book, bravo) and go inside for the night (and, how dare you quote Whitman?!)
Goodnight (goodnight)
Do you think back on which days were warm
It was eternally morning
No clock messing with you
11:11am, all the time
Arms overhead
Clear head
Carefree
What’s with all the ice, now, too early to the party
All the shutdowns
All roads some surprise mess
5:55pm, and always grey
Sunrise, where are you
Please rise
Sun
What if I befriended time
Then took its outstretched hand
Separation was no more
Despite life’s shifting sand
Daytime, nighttime were as one
Without the fear of loss
Silver seconds, yearnless years
And age no bridge to cross
I beckon thee to join with me
In unrelenting drive
To put away some thought of death
To embrace what’s alive
Each minute is a golden hour
Each breath a pulsar day
When time gives us its outstretched hand
We must not look away
Were I to wear cowgirl boots on New Year’s Eve’
Would they walk me to your shine?
Were you to spin 70’s tunes on your record player
Would your dancin’ feet meet mine?
What did you wish for on your birthday without me
A shared path for us to find?
What I begged of the Ghost of Christmas Past
A machine to turn back time….