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If I were time
people would marvel
at how much of me had passed without their noticing,
how both long and scarce I am,
how only I have the balm for some wounds,
how only I can change hearts and minds
but I myself don’t change.
Maybe this is why some seek ways to stop or even kill me.
You’d think I were the perfect lover, the way some talk about me —
they can never have enough.
But I’m searching for that one
who can enjoy me just as I am:
empty, inert, needing help knowing what I’m made of.
If I were time.