Last week I was out of my mind. I kept forgetting things. My lunch on the kitchen counter. My phone at work. My work keys at home. I forgot the days, as if an oxygen tube detached from my head. I couldn’t breathe.
I ran from then to now. Ran until I couldn’t. I’m tethered. I’m fettered. I’m lodged. And Time doesn’t care. Sadist.
Masochist, it calls me.
We’re intimate, Time and I. And I’m the bitch.
It screeches to a halt for amusement. Like paintings on an old urn. What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What beauty never fades?
I know of one.