Feeling the Weight of Time

Sand runs down 
and into the chasms below. 

Gone.

If you could 
turn back time, 
you would go back to that day 
when she was playing 
in the pool. 
Oblivious that the breakfast 
she had in the morning 
would be her last. 
She would be drowning, 
not only in water, 
but in a pool of regret. 

Why did they not come fast enough? 

You would’ve told her 
not to go near the pool. 
To instead stay on the ground, 
safe, 
away from disaster. 

If you could turn back time, 
you would go back to the day 
when he ripped your notebook. 
You would leave your book 
at home instead.
Hide it. 

You would forgive him. 

If you could turn back time,
you would go back to the afternoon
when she doodled 
tiny planets
in the margin of her worksheet,
tilting her head 
at the window.
You would have noticed the way 
she hummed
like she was mapping 
a secret sky.
You would have leaned over, 
asked her name,
asked which city she wanted to visit,
and maybe,
just maybe
offered to learn the map 
with her.

But the sands run faster still.