the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

we can all feel it,
we pretend we don’t, but we do

you feel it when you wake up in the morning
having dreamt of your childhood
and the sound of your sister’s laughter is still ringing in your ears

you feel it when you look up from a book
and its not your brother sitting in the chair next to you
but a strange fellow with a deep voice
and a nose that looks remarkably familiar

and strongest of all, you feel it when at the dinner table
your mother asks you what you’ve been up to for the past 18 years

see, the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

just the other night, I pressed my palms together
and I called on a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile,
to ask where he’d been

he told me he’d been spending time with my father
because the man really needed some company
without his oldest son to talk to

oh and while I have you, he said,
your mother called
she told me to tell you
that your bed is made, if you ever want to come home

I want to write a poem
that brings the girl
with the stone eyes
to tears
that will melt away
her barrier of misery
like a butter mint
in the mouth

I want to write a poem
that gives the man with
permanent frown lines
and worn leather skin
a sparkle in his eye
and fulfillment in his breath

I want to write a poem
that makes the heartbeat
a little bit louder
or softer
or stronger
or momentarily
skip

I want to write a poem
that allures people into
staying up until 4 am
searching for others alike
that will give them
the same kind of clarity
in this very cloudy world

-kk