These talks of time,
passing, flowing—alive.
Wasting time, why waste
a finite resource, of all things
to fritter away on a
summer day, hot day, day when
the world deceives you with its
languor and its lust.

When the day ends and
they look up at the dark sky
and cry and cry and cry when
winter sets in. Deceptively
simple—the sun sets on the
horizon, the birds cease to sing
and the flowers cease to be
and there’s cold and cold and cold.

Everything is the same, something
has changed. Lines on his face,
a lapse in her step, wasted
summer days when the world
stopped and fooled them into
believing that
they have
too.