There are moments where I want to scold time and tell it to stand absolutely still. Like the first time you whispered into my ear that you loved me, on a warm and balmy summer night just like tonight, on a bench in a half-forgotten, isolated park in the middle of the city. Or the time you reached for me through the early morning fog, pulling me closer against your chest, our bodies melding into each other's so perfectly, our hearts beating in tandem with a faraway mosque's call to prayer.
I wish. I wish I can freeze time indefinitely as I please. So that today is still tomorrow, and tomorrow will be today, still, extending over the course of numerous days and weeks and maybe even months to come, where time has no authority over us; where time doesn't change anything between us; where time is always exactly where it's supposed to be for either of us.
But the laws of the universe forbids this. And so I move on, powerless against the seconds and minutes of time; weightless, like a graying, dying dandelion, its seeds being blown apart, its pieces carried away into the wind.
There is no turning back, I know. And although time will never stand still for anyone, at the very least, it always offers us the chance to heal; the luxury of starting over all again.
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