I can judge time passed,
by the chips in my nail polish.

It collects in the corners of eyes,
at the edges of mouths it lies.

Sometimes I look for it on my hand,
each scar like a grain of sand.

Other times it remains unseen,
hiding behind a laugh or scream.

I glimpse it in a backward glance,
but it stabs with pain as if a lance.

The jolting sensation to look at change,
to see how life does rearrange.

Then I go back staring at the ground,
Ignore it though my heart does pound.

And pretend the only sign of time passed,
are the chips in my nail polish.