Watch

the Summer’s

turn

of season change,

at first,

minute.

Leaves,

freckled

’round

the edges;

Autumn

bruises flesh

like fruit.

“Your time”

it stole

what once was

ours;

the day was

struck

with night

as trembling

hands

of fresh cut flowers

felt your

lack of life —

to memorize

your face,

I drown

each second

I recall:

an hourglass

turned

upside down

the teardrops,

timeless,

fall.

Watch

the Winter’s

lengthened eve’

and

clocks

wound

to the new:

before it was

our

time to grieve

&

after losing you.

Three thousand, six hundred seconds.

I’m watching the clock and waiting.

You said you’d be here.

Where are you?

There are only three thousand, four hundred, twenty-eight seconds left.

You’re running out of time.

You promised me.

Now, look. You have two thousand, nine hundred, fifty-four seconds to make it all the way over here.

I don’t think you’ll make it, but I’m praying that you will.

Yet, I don’t want to get my hopes up, so I’m telling myself that you won’t.

See? It isn’t going to happen. There are only two thousand, one hundred, twenty-three seconds left.

You’ll never make it in time.

Surely you’re still enjoying yourself in Paris.

With some other person.

Without me.

You probably missed your flight.

Probably on purpose.

We’re at one thousand, seven hundred, ninety-nine seconds now.

Even if you didn’t miss your flight, it probably got delayed and you probably didn’t mind.

I’m staring at my watch and I see that you only have eight hundred and two seconds left.

Why am I even caring so much about your return?

You probably couldn’t care any less about me.

This is unlike me-- obsessing over someone like this.

What happened to my strength?

Have I become dependant?

Have I become weak?

Certainly not!

I don’t care that there are only five hundred forty-six seconds left.

I’m not even counting anymore.

I’m going to stop looking at my watch.

I’m going to stop checking my phone.

I’m going to stop looking out of the window.

Because there are now only three hundred and ten seconds left.

And I know that you aren’t coming back.

You’ve forgotten about me.

I know you have.

Because there are two hundred, twenty-five seconds left.

You would never be late.

I’ve been sitting in the corner booth all this time.

The waitress keeps asking me what I want.

And I don’t tell her, because if I did, she’d say you weren’t on the menu.

Because you’re not.

And, quite frankly, I’ve lost my appetite anyway, so I may as well leave.

There are one hundred seconds left and I’m getting up.

I’m heading towards the door.

I never should have come.

My feet drag slowly due to my heavy heart, but I finally make it to the door.

I push it open, and I don’t want to, but I glance at my watch anyway, involuntarily calculating that there are only fifteen seconds left.

I stand outside, glancing down the bustling street.

I’m not looking for you.

I don’t care that there are five seconds left.

I don’t care that the time is up.

I don’t care that I hear someone rushing up behind me.

I don’t care until I hear your voice.

That’s when my heart leaps.

I knew you’d make it.

I knew you’d remember.

I knew it all along!

“Sorry I’m late!” you say, grasping my arm, “Please forgive me.”

“No need to apologize,” I smile, “You weren’t late. I was three thousand, six-hundred seconds early.”

You are the chapter that I didn’t see coming, yet your story feels familiar.

Each

Space

Between your sentence spills

beautiful chaos and undiluted passion

that many would not grasp.

*a page per minute

There was a time she thought for

sure he'd propose

their relationship sprawled out

across the globe

on the flight west

the pilot says

one hour until we land in

Los Angeles

that's sixty minutes

three thousand six hundred seconds

until she sees his face in the throng

until she sees what was

right in front of her all along

his commitment issues like scars

across his mouth

his having cheated all over him

like the smell after love

like the taste of someone else

his basic misunderstanding

of her need

to not waste her twenties

her need to be appreciated

her dignity so small

they're not getting engaged after all

20 Minutes : Mealime

It's an app that allows me to plan my weekly meals in advance by selecting from an array of healthy recipes, filtered through criteria like "low carb" or omitting certain veggies or ingredients altogether. It compiles a shopping list of all the items I need to buy for the week, then walks me through each meal. The average time I spend cooking each day equates to less than half an hour (note: I do prep a bit beforehand or buy pre-diced/prepped veggies when I can) and I eat much better because of it. I can tell because the content of my grocery cart has completely transformed from frozen, pre-packaged meals to a healthier balance of produce and meat. Leftovers make the best lunch, and I'm not a breakfast person, so cooking just once a day works for me.

20 Minutes: Playne

It's a computer game that focuses on building meditation as a daily habit by gamifying it with the help of beautiful ambient noises that make up a virtual space you bring to life as you login each day. Your helpful spirit guide, a fox named Wolf (yup) walks you through the absolute basics of meditation, and you set the pace and setting when you're ready. I've logged in at least seven days now, a record for someone who never stopped to sit still before. Anytime I have a rogue thought pop up, I just click my mouse and let it go. While I might not look like a traditional meditation guru, sitting in my computer chair with a headset and a mouse in hand, it works for me. I'm in my comfort zone and I can squeeze in a quick meditative break even while I work from home.

20 Minutes: Fitness Boxing

Yup, another game on Nintendo Switch now; this one though walks you through simple boxing combos set to a simplified pop-song beat. Like the quieter Playne game above it rewards habit building by providing a pregenerated daily workout that only takes a few minutes, and logs your progress with a satisfying "PUNCH" stamp as you complete each day. You can choose from a variety of customizable coaches that provide laid back, consistent feedback as they walk you through basic moves (jab, straight, hook, uppercut, or dodge). I needed to get back into a workout routine and add a little more cardio to my day. I turn this on in the morning as soon as I roll out of bed and it immediately gets me the quick, easy endorphin boost I need to start my day.

20 + 20 + 20 = 60 minutes a day focused on my health.

Twenty minutes on my fitness, twenty minutes on my diet, and twenty minutes on my stress levels. That's all I'm working towards. If I can just get these guys done everyday, I'm three fourths of the way towards a healthy balanced person.

The last pillar of health would be sleep, which once I've tackled these babies comes much easier at the end of my day.

One hour with you is all I have left. You whispered through beams of hospital lighting, telling me to run. I think because you didn't want me to see you like this. I don’t know why, but I stayed. Rebels aren’t supposed to have a cause, that’s what you always said. But you were mine. Way back when your voice was full of life not dreading sorrow. The blue in your aquamarine eyes faded to dull green, and I don’t know what to do.

You said we would be okay. Held my hand carefully in the back of a taxi, like we were both made of glass, and maybe we were. That was before I held your hand in the back of the ambulance. We pulled leather jackets over white t shirts. I swiped Marilyn Monroe posters from the vintage store across the way, and you tucked red lipstick from Macy’s into your side pocket because I’ve always wanted to look like a movie star. You always preferred pink. Even if we got caught, you promised we’d be alright.

We pretended to be happy and alive, both things neither of us will ever be again.

Thirty minutes is all I have left before they turn life support off. The nurse assured me it wouldn’t hurt. Be just like flipping a switch, she explained in her thick Long Island accent that still sounded foreign to my Georgian ears. Easy for her to say, she's not losing her only love, her only friend, only companion in this harsh world. It will hurt me. It won’t hurt you, and that’s all that matters. I think I’ll move back south. Every New Yorkers' eyes is blame thrown in my direction. Call me a coward, maybe I am.

I’m going to bury you in denim. I don’t care what they say. It’s how you would have wanted to go. It feels awful to think about your funeral. I think I’ll wear your jacket. If that’s alright. Even six feet under, I’ll be close to you. Closer than we are now, at least. I mean, how close can two people be when an oxygen mask is covering the other’s face?

I wish I could say goodbye, but that’s too final. I want to spend the next twenty minutes remembering you as you used to be, red hair bright as the stars you studied back in astronomy class before you dropped out, pale skin fresh as fallen snow, blue eyes deep as the Pacific. Your lips that will never move again will haunt me in my sleep, I’m sure.

Ten minutes left, gosh, where did the time go? I’m never going back to our apartment. I’ve made my decision. Nobody will miss me, but I’ll always miss you. Now the nurse is shuffling me out, but I can’t feel anything. The doctor’s glaring at me. Maybe I’m screwing up his schedule or he hates leather. Either way, I glare back just as cold. You were the only thing making me warm and nice, and now that you’re gone, well...

My knees buckle outside. I think I’m done now. I miss you.

Donna gripped her purse tightly as she waited for the court proceeding to start. The day she had been dreading for months had finally arrived and she was desperate to find out the verdict. Her lawyer had gone in alone to represent Donna and her foster daughter. The little girl was still at school. Though she knew that it was happening, she was unaware of what it might mean for her and her relationship with Donna. Donna was just praying for a mistrial or for the woman to be flatly denied all together. It wasn't like she didn't like her. She was just worried for what it would mean for A'Lexus.

The seconds ticked by as she sat with her worries and woes keeping her company. Aobut seven hundred seconds into waiting, the doors open. Ja'Tia came out first. She avoided eye contact as she walked past the bench where Donna sat and walked out of the courtroom. Maxwell came out after her, holding a manila folder. Donna shot out of the bench.

"What happened? What did they say?"

"She gets supervised visits. They're an hour on Saturday every other week."

"So she can fight for custody?"

"It is her daughter," Maxwell said. "The woman technically never did anything wrong. She was young and got with the wrong person. Now, she's paying for that mistake."

"Lex is really adjusting though. She gets along well with the other kids, she has great grades, and she is doing better than she was in her old house."

"We got a judge that thinks it is best for a child to be with its birth parents. That's rare in itself. The woman is doing everything she can. She recently got custody of A'Lexus's younger brothers back. She is doing counseling, has a stable residence, a full-time job, and is really just hoping to have her baby back."

"So that's it? Four months of taking care of this kid just go away like that?"

"It's the cross you bear when you become a foster parent," Maxwell said. "I'm sorry. Here are the details of the supervised visits and a DHS caseworker will be in contact with you in a few days."

Maxwell handed Donna the manila folder and walked out, leaving the crying woman alone with the realization that she was going to lose her kid.