Bartering Time

Time, 
I’m afraid
we’re running out of time. 

I can tell from the pillars of the sands of Moher 
slipping through our hands and the erosion left behind 
on your paper-thin skin that we’re wasting time. 

I can tell from the creases that crinkle in 
your rosy laugh lines and the snowy wisps
over your Celtic plains that we’re just passing the time. 

I can tell from the fog, murking the 
hazel in your eyes, and the clouded 
skies in your mind that we’re losing time.

I can tell from the tremors that echo in the 
ridges of your fingertips and the quaking in the soil
with every unsteady step that we’re almost out of time. 

Time, 
I’m sorry,
I wish we had more time. 

Photograph by @colored_pixels