time is sand to the gaps through my fingers
air to a drifting feather
a current to the water
it seeps through
it flows
it wipes off
never keeps tracks nor leaves prints
never tangible nor stays still
the closest we can get is a swirl of its moments
the stretched writings of the faint memories
it keeps you on your toes
it leaves you breathless
it never stays as it was

if you’re so used to goodbyes, why does it ache different each time?

words, little do they seem to mean
for someone so big that not even one’s heart can bear

i hope in a different life,
you would—at least—be happier,
even if that means trading my only chance
in this life of knowing you exist.

you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company

So you exist most of the time
dear muse

if i’d known better, would i still be able to tell myself that i was not doing things wrong?