Freeze the Time

To my unknown lover.

I want to freeze the time, I say,

one evening in May as you walk out the front door.

You put your coat on, one shoe on your right foot and

one shoe is falling off.

How, you fumble with the broken clasp, frustrated and

angry and

I don’t know at who or what thing

those feelings are aim towards.

I want to freeze the time, I repeat, you know,

like putting it in the freezer and who knows,

Ten years from now, twenty years from now,

a hundred years from now –

whenever I need it, I can just open up the freezer and

there it is – the time: the you and me, one evening in May,

you are walking out and I stay in our apartment,

young and filled with nothing but faint hopes and useless disappointments.

You won’t be alive one hundred years from now, you laugh,

as if you think I was joking.

Of course, to you, I am alway joking.

Some mischief to relieve you of the tiring day and

the breathing life.

Say, when did you last take a breath?

Not a breath where you need to do it to survive,

but a breath where you truly see why you need to breathe.

Then do you know why you need to breathe? you ask me, finally putting on

the remaining shoe and opening the door.

Yes.

And what is your reason?

I look at you,

your broad back,

your worn coat, tattered at the shoulders,

you black suitcase,

and the sunset shining its remaining light over

your disappearing face.

I want to freeze the time, I say, as you finally walk out,

and close the door.

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