And so, I wait because you have already left and my work here, is done.
I wait and wonder how my skin feels like it’s made of love letters
written a hundred years too soon (too late).
I wonder at the mystery of life and how much of it can possibly remain.
I wonder at pain and hurt and love and time and how much of each I held.
I wonder at how I cannot remember anything in my life before I met you.
I wonder at the tiniest of touches and try, desperately, to keep their memories alive.
I wonder at loneliness.
I wonder at how long it’ll be, before I see you again.
And I wonder.
— The day time waited for me - I wrote this for you