Clocks

Whenever I look at the time,
I add three hours
just so I know
if you might be
waking up
or eating lunch
or attending
one of your 2 am sessions,
playing until your fingers ache.

When the clock strikes 12:34,
I remember how one night,
while experimenting
with mind-altering substances,
my best friend realized
that you were in the future,
that you were three hours older
or something else
we couldn’t quite grasp.
Now I think of you that way–
in this nebulous future
that I can never reach.

And I wish every day
when I catch the time flashing 11:11.
I wish for you
with all the insanity
that breeds, 
and I understand
how time has always led me,
pulled my fingers and feet
forward or back,
and stuck me to walls
where I’m paper
instead of water
and you tear
instead of bend
because I’m rigid
in the blue of the past,
this mire of time
designed around you.