carving time
I whittle down time by the unit, shaping it into your likeness. There are the intervals between missed nanoseconds—ones my carving knife thoughts can’t touch—and you hidden in them. The curve of your lips, the peach-bitten lips, your fingers in mine. Sunsets and sunrises swirling in your slate pupils, always looking to dip me in colour and bring me back out, sodden.
Life has always existed, but somehow this life—my life—in this moment, is shaped entirely by you.














