continuous

I pretended, or
more so wished,
to be able to stop
time. I practiced daily,
and never mastered it.

While the love of
my life speaks, I
fixate on their lips
finding the pockets
between consonants
and trying to
extend them.
I become the
rise of their rib cage,
an inhale, a sensation
of being full. I would
love to keep it this way.

They say you can only
tell that an object is
moving because there is
a stationary reference point.

The world, however,
keeps going. The stationary
are simply at rest, and will
return in time.

You see,
I've known
stillness, and
tried to become
it, but I was
given lips and
fingers for
a reason.

Statues, even,
become restless.
They crumble,
reaching out
to the
Earth,
eagerly
rejoining
the process
after years of sleep.

I can't stop time,
or sleep until everything's
alright. I used to think it
unfair, but now I think it
merciful.