Our Time

Time is not a slave to space
nor hands on a clock face.
It is not what science thinks,
not in or out of sync.
It’s not Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday;
those are labels someone made
that we were trained to follow,
but look at them closely, hollow.

It is the fire in which we burn,
the joy for which we yearn.
It is what we give, what we take,
the extra that we make.
It is the wounds we heal,
the laughter we steal
from undeserved pain
while we splash in the rain.

It’s the small minutes,
it’s the big events,
it’s the stupid things we do
that make no entire sense.
It is memories we create,
a life circling a mate,
cherished love beginning
with a mere twist of fate.

It’s not what we deny or measure,
but rather, all that we treasure.
Not what science thinks,
not in or out of sync.
Nor hands on a clock face,
not a certain slave to space.
It’s the destiny that was set
from the instant we met.

But even though we remain apart,
it’s the countless hours
you spend in my heart.

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