The Weight of Time

By: Samantha Wozich

Waiting.
Some call it stuck.
I call it comfort.

Time drags me away—
I refuse.
I grasp at what’s left of the past,
but my hands find nothing.

I glare at what I’ve become:
Every wrinkle,
meant to be a badge of living,
but for me, it’s a reminder,
a reminder
of the comfort
I clung to for so long.

Time has allowed me to wait,
but still, it moves—
and I have nothing to show for it.

I loosen my grip,
and everything I know
flies away.
I don’t chase it.
I wait.
I wait until it’s out of sight.

The kiss of spring caresses my face—
rebirth.