Looking back, I always wanted Time
to stop, to watch, to listen to the beat
of my heart, steadfast. He laid his head on me –
I don’t want him to leave – I miss our past
when his breath matched mine, and my hands held his, he slowed,
and the world around us blurred into a print.
 
And the world around us blurred into a print
of colors whose form is lost in time.
Songs of love and wine, we stand and slow-
dance to forget the screams and shouts, the beat
a cover to the undulating past
when he looked up and saw what’s inside me.
 
My heart, steadfast, he laid his head on me,
and heard my breaths we painted on a print,
forever hanging on the mantle. And it passed
the gaze of guests who wander, who we time
to see how long they stay before we beat
them away. We hate the guests who keep us slow.
 
When his breath matched mine, and my hand held his, he slowed
for now. I hear the discord between his and my
footsteps as we walk our halls, and the fans beat
above collages of me and him, printed
when we were happier, another time
when we faced each other. A memory of the past.
 
I don’t want him to leave – I miss our past
companionship, I never felt he slowed
us down when I flew ahead and lost both me
and him. But now that he is gone our time
is fading in the past, I try to print
his picture. In my ear, I hear his beat.
 
I stop, I watch, I listen to the beat
and rush of blood that flows around and past
his heart. It’s weak and quiet, he has a print-
out in his hand, a somber look, time slowed
to the rhythm of the beeps beside his bed. His time
is up. His beat is gone. Our love is past.
 
The newsprint rotted slowly at the foot
of the beat-up house. It was no longer mine,
its time had come, and I forgot my past. 
 
Looking back, I always wanted Time