The one that carries us.
But do you even exist?
Because I swear to you,
last night, while I stared into your coal-dark eyes,
while you murmured my name,
while shadows wrestled
in sweat and breath
and some quiet apocalypse rose from the armchair,
there was no time.
There was only you,
and only me.
The shadows slipped away,
the lights were off,
the balcony door open,
and the city kept going on
as if it had nothing to do with us.
The hour hand danced
with the minute hand,
swaying, drifting.
And I’m supposed to take that as proof?
Or is it these false whites in my hair,
these rings of age under my eyes,
my youth leaping forward and landing
in the arms of my daughters,
the years knocking at my door
and running off
like mischievous children?
When I say “all these years,”
what exactly have I fit inside that box?
Apparently,
I have been calling it time…
You are real only when I step into you;
but when I choose to ignore you,
I feel weightless,
almost happy,
And still,
I do not believe
you truly exist.
Beril YABAR
