relativity

time seems to fly
when I’m talking to him.
when I’m alone it crawls
like a broken insect
from which someone
has removed the wings. my father
did that as a child, so
I know a little bit
about wanton cruelty.

left to my own devices
I limp around lying
to myself, lie around limply,
longingly let loose
my languishing love
in languid dreams
and hazy, dimly lit reveries
about something I know
can never be. these surreal hours
are of time but not in it;
they don’t count.

I’m just
waiting
for real time to resume,
dying for the second
the clock is resuscitated
so my heart, too,
can beat again.