Time slips through your fingers
like water you swear you can hold—
cold for a second,
gone the next.
You watch it in quiet places:
steam lifting from coffee,
dust turning gold in late afternoon light,
a song ending before you notice
you were listening.
There was a day
you thought summer would last forever.
Now entire years collapse
into the smell of rain
and the sound of a screen door closing.
The clock does not chase you.
It simply continues,
patient as the moon,
while you stand in the doorway
counting all the versions of yourself
you forgot to mourn.
And still—
morning arrives with its small mercies:
birds arguing in the trees,
the warmth of another hand,
your name spoken softly
by someone who means it.
Maybe time is not stealing from us.
Maybe it is teaching us
how precious a moment becomes
just before it disappears.
Thank-you for reading.
Brenda Marie
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