To touch the body so close, so near...
and yet not fathom the deep wound—
that anguish blazes plain across your eyes.
Do you know how far it reaches?
To stand so close to someone
loved with terrible intensity
and still not possess them—
do you know the weight of that regret?
How terrifying the naked form
of feelings left unspoken,
do you know?
How much distance did the embrace
that could never be satisfied
manage to bridge?
Have you ever asked?
Tell me—how much time
do we truly have left in our hands?
How much time remains?
Can you say?
# Time in My Hands Time in my hands grows thin, a thin thread unwinding through the fingers of years. I watch it slip— not in grief, but in the simple way light leaves a room when evening lowers its curtain. Once I thought I held it all: the hours stretched like cloth I could cut and stitch into the shape of my wanting. Now I know better. Time was never mine to hold. It passes through me the way water passes through open palms— some stays, most returns to the great well it came from. And still I reach. Still I gather what remains into the hollow of my chest, this small cup that learns, late, to drink without thirst, to receive without asking why the gift arrives so measured, so reluctant, so entirely its own.
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