Time doesn’t knock.
It slips in —
quiet as dusk,
loud as regret.
It won’t ask
if you’re ready to leave childhood behind,
or if that kiss meant more than it should’ve.
It just moves —
forward,
always forward,
like a train that forgot how to brake.
You blink,
and someone’s a stranger.
You breathe,
and something's changed.
You fall asleep,
and your dreams are already late.
They say time heals.
Maybe.
But only after it ruins.
Only after it erases names
from your memory
like chalk on rain-soaked sidewalks.
Time teaches —
with scars,
with silence,
with the weight of could’ve been.
And yet,
you beg for more of it.
You barter hours for meaning.
You chase it
like running was never its nature.
But time always runs.
It outpaces youth,
eludes love,
surpasses you.
Still,
you hold out your hands,
as if you could catch it.
As if it was ever yours to keep.