time travel

There is always this sense of urgency.

I must hurry forward to meet the new day.

There is no more slow, dull lapping of the waves on the shore.

No more listening to the drops of water as they fall from sky to ground.

There is only the sound of the wind rushing in my ear, blowing my hair.

Only the sound of my mind racing.

That is real now.

But if I turn backwards, inwards upon myself,

I could be any time I chose.

I could go back to the lull of life before this chaotic mess where he is no more.

The we could be in the porch swing on a hot summer evening,

rocking back and forth, side by side,

sipping some terrible tasting cheap whiskey out of a shared bottle.

All the happiness in the world lives in that moment.

I can go back, if I close my eyes just right,

and feel his skin brush against mine once more, peacefully, consolingly.

But I fear to do it too often.

To return from such a happy time to one such as this

will be my death, I know.

There is no solace for my weary heart.

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