Time

By Liaden Afteh

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​Isolation is lonely.
 
You can feel the sound of the trees rustling in the wind.
 
You notice every vein of each leaf from out of your window. The way the auburn runs into yellow before fluttering down onto the floor.
 
You can hear car doors slam, engines starting and wheels scraping the tar of the main road.
 
You can feel time. Feel it crawl up over your skin and wash over you, throwing you out only to pull you back in.
 
But time also slips away.
 
The leaves are not stained with auburn anymore. They are soft and green, a reminder that time never stills.
 
That same time that bathed you, tucked you in and dozed you to sleep still ticks.
 
And it stares at you through the window.
 
It stares at you in the leaves that will soon fall again.
 
It stares at you in the pile of pages that remain unwritten.
 
Or the folded clothes you keep saying you’ll put away.
 
It stares in the memories you’ve not yet made.
 
And in the memories that, even though you try, you still can’t shake. 

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