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 sat down to write a poem about anything but love. i guess when you're running from it is when it hits you the hardest.