i wonder if people catalogue you
like time in their mind.
if there’s an allotted space for you
hidden between the hands of the clock,
passing by hours without thought
are you sectioned off somewhere
a time of night people don’t go near
the streetlight hits you and i see
you touch you to call you real
the space where you were becomes
smoke through my fingers.
i wonder what time of space you
exist in and
can i come in?