my thoughts hadn't an intention.

It was morning for me, for others it was just another time in the day. A day that had been waiting to be started—to be opened—so the world could move through it, shuffle their feet, tare apart the grass and let the hours fall behind them, like light betraying a shadow’s back, barely projecting its presence at all. Devastating, is it not? How time easily objectives itself into roles of being and nothingness. Moments significant within the walls of an instant—a heartbeat’s repetition of now, now, now—when one needs its presence most. And then, just as our barrier begins to fall forward, we pick up our feet and run from the corner in our heart that felt safe—where feeling felt comfortable and effortless. You hear him gaining speed before your eyes can commit to seeing him turn and go. But you scream after, for your instinct is to believe a voice will penetrate through a man’s refuge—that confine where he seals silence shut. Do not question this shelter, he built the structure himself. And his heart will let what it needs slip beneath its door, for it is beyond the reason of his hands. Like a constant reminder—a frame of film purposefully placed on pause—your voice will resonate between the walls of his mind, if it is you that is his moment, the moment that will last. But you do not believe me, simply because you cannot trust your truth. He runs away from reason, circling time, so you cannot take one way to find him. His body reduced by distance, making you feel like you could hold him if you had him again—carry him in the closure of your control. But your feelings have not made you think, and therefore you do not question this likelihood. You are tired and time turns sleepy with you. Two mouths open in the night, the air is lipless, so you lay alone. Your last thought is your first thought. And if only you could have remembered the day you saw him and the future at once, that space that caused you to whisper, “One day his tongue will stop tracing my skin with hope”, you would have known the memory between the beginning and the ending, the moment presence stood in place. You fall between darkness and light, the moment hovering over a dream, a night away from the day being an afterthought. Sleep exhales a breath of permanence over your lens, heavy with forgetfulness. But sleep only lasts for hours and then you are awake with sobriety, when what you need is time to forgive. Time, you think, begins again in the morning but in the light what will the day mean?