Time Travel

Author’s Note: I don’t remember writing this poem. It “occurred” during a weird moment where time felt much faster to me. Hours were seconds, and I tried slowing everything down. When I finally caught up with time, I found this on my phone.  So, I called it “Time Travel”.

Are we ok?
I just don’t know.
How far is too far?
How fast is too slow?
How close can we get before falling apart?
How many regrets before we even start?

 

Trust is not a value system
Of opinion based facts matching up with mine.
Not a social construct
Created to pacify the naive in their darkest time.
No, not even a passion treaty
Formed between two parties of varying equality.
No. Trust is but a bone.

A bone within our skeletons imbibed at birth with other special qualities.
Such a bone holds a different limb in place for each one skeleton.
My Trust bone, I take, to be connecting my left arm to my rib cage.
Ah, but no bone such as this exists, you say, I disagree.

 

Such a bone holds quite the important place within my personal bag of them.
It controls my left arm mostly—
Guiding, commissioning, and correcting
Directing the impulses echoing from my ribcage.
My ribcage shakes at the shouts of heart—
Commands usually, but sometimes pleasures—
And my Trust transposes the echoes to my actions.

 

There’s a disconnect, you see.
My heart commands implicitly.
My skeleton refers its interests to me.
My Trust alone does not condone
For it is only but a bone
Just another marrowed messenger of tone.

 

Thus, the phrase “earn my Trust” makes no lick of sense.
The idea even offense to its true nature—
The likes of which few have ever bothered to articulate.
Yet, herein lies the truth—
To see my Trust you’d have to cut me open and rip out the flesh and spirit around to see it truly—
A bone in its seething blood.
As such a process is not enjoyable for either party,
Might I suggest another route?

 

My hand
As it were, connects to my arm, connects to my Trust, connects to my ribcage, echoes of my heart, enlivens my soul.
It’s quite direct if you ask me.
A few bony knobs in the way,
But you’ll get there.
May my hand find your Trust bone invariably faster than a lifetime.
May our bones rattle and shout in objection to the oppressor of our doubt in life- Time.

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