More often than you would expect
But far less often than I'd like
I find myself in the company of the hands of time.
Each frequently infrequent encounter he tells me stories that are otherwise uninteresting and uneventful
But with him they are incomparable
And the passing of time goes far too quickly.
He doesn't realize who he is.
And I cannot be the one to tell him
That he controls the months and weeks and days with his voice.
And it's up to him how many seconds have passed since the beginning and until the end.
So I just sit and listen and laugh
and smile and cry
One becomes five, and five becomes four.
And on and on time flies.
Saying nothing, or saying little.
I'm afraid I'll ruin his magic.
Time will not speed up for me, nor will it slow down.
Only for him.
And only in his company.