Time moves like a pickpocket,
light on its feet, swift with its hands,
leaving nothing but the crumbs of what was.
We were children once,
our days stretching wide as open fields,
our laughter loose as pebbles in rattles,
certain the sun would wait forever.
But seasons changed while we blinked.
Faces we knew blurred into memories,
our names grew foreign in old mouths,
and the joys of old conversations
sank into the pit of time’s greed.
The mirror became a stranger.
We mistook shadows for people we used to be.
We touched photographs like open doors,
but nothing inside would move.
We begged the clock to slow down,
but it did not bargain.
It did not break stride.
And so we watch, helpless,
as the days pile into years,
as our reflections grow unfamiliar,
as the child in the mirror steps back,
replaced by someone who once swore
they had all the time in the world.
No matter how tightly you hold this hour,
the next will come and take it,
reminding you,
the last hour was the youngest you’ll ever be.
