# Time, You Old Teacher <p>Time, you old teacher, what lessons do you hold in your weathered hands? We come to your classroom wearing our wounds like uniforms, our failures like medals.</p> <p>You sit there, patient, measuring out the hours in the spaces between heartbeats, teaching us what we never wanted to learn— that nothing stays, that everything bends toward forgetting.</p> <p>Your chalk scratches across the blackboard of our bones. Your voice is the sound of seasons turning, of water wearing stone to sand, of lovers becoming strangers in the time it takes to say goodbye.</p> <p>We are your worst students, Time. We do not listen. We rage against your lessons, build monuments to deny you, love as though you do not exist, speak of forever as though it were not a word you invented just to make us suffer.</p> <p>Yet here we sit, in your endless classroom, learning slowly what you try to teach— that letting go is not loss, that change is the only permanence, that even sorrow finds its season and passes like autumn into snow.</p> <p>You old teacher, we were your pupils all along, though we never admitted it. We are your finest work, and we are still learning how to say thank you for everything you take away.</p>