Time is a place

Time is a place I keep coming back to.

Time is a garden of promises, of hopes that grew and dwindled.

Time is a passage of finished conversations and wishes that fleeted.

I am its visitor.

It was a secret year I wish nobody would learn about.

It was a secret year that fuels my poetry; a flavor to all the musings.

Time is a place that could wound. I was wounded.

In my head, you are still teaching me about your childhood;

I am still reading you poems;

you are still bringing me gardenias.

Static since January.

Planted Petunias in February,

and for the coming months who will tell a naive poet of the fate of his frail muse?

Time is a p—

prison. I am its prisoner.

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