Time is but a soft breeze
too weak to rustle my chiffon skirts.

Here, where the air is denser and darker,
I sit dully in a cloud above my room
to watch the details below me like I am not a part of that world
but detached, as if my sadness has manifested around me
and become a tangible, misty box.

Eventually, my cloud will mix with sky.

Its ivory vapors will be lost to the blue expanse,
letting me fall back to the Earth,
and then I will have escaped the reverie which has bound me.

But by then, my skin will have grown coarse and rough;
my hair will have turned as white as clouds.
And you will be gone, probably
because time moved too slowly for me
and too fast for you.