Time: but an illusion.

I stand before the endless ticking,
counting broken moments
and call them "seconds"

but each one seems like the first.

Following the weak rhythm of heartbeat
until it is strong again,

until the pain fades,

till the sands of this illusion
bury you out of sight.

I want to look at you
to prove to myself that it’s okay;
I won’t turn to stone.

To prove to myself
that even if these
open wounds burn,
I won’t bleed out.

To prove to myself
that the blur of color
at the edge of my sight
is not the world
bleeding into itself,
but only my eyes watering.

Funny isn’t it?
How one can be
the knife, the wound,
and the salt
all at once?

I just want to speak to you
not because you deserve my words
or the satisfaction,

but to tell you that after everything
(although "everything" was "nothing")

I’m glad it was you.