I have waited years for every week to end.
Imagining the possibilities of feeling free.
But as time continued I saw only the beginning.
Mundane days stretched out to two days.
Though I remembered some days as if they were yesterday.
I know myself to fall for being in the weak.
I can no longer continue to see it with such disgust.
What is a day but time compiled to form endless possibilities.
Stretched seconds of life to mean it to be ours alone.
Only we seem to hold to such a passing.
Scheduling our time to hands that cross and never pointing to our own end.
It continues to flow and though it simply isn’t my own, I continue to hold.
Each pointed tip revealing the present before me.
And so I open it and know that I will live, now.