Time, Home

I thought for a second
that your fifteen minutes
was an hour,
figured if I gave it a week
you'd stay a day
or two,

then a month went by
and it was a year,
October-o'clock
but that's just semantics-

golden hours copper
sunset silver spoon
make new friends
and keep them new
sun, weary moon
will grab the tide,

and we'll watch, intently,
because everybody
wants to make somebody move.

I thought I saw you.
Maybe it was May,
maybe winter breeze
through Pasadena June-

for every minute you slept
I lived two.

I spent three, four, six seconds
staring at your lips
and it was six o'clock-
the sun was cold, like we like it

and you made me breakfast-
I didn't know you could do that
in the time it takes
for me to bat my eyelashes once.

Then a week past
and I had to wait a month,
a month made of months
I waited, to touch your neck and jaw
to rest my hands around your face,
to say nothing

and to think, I think I'm home now-
but I'm not quite sure,

in that moment
I was ready to die of old age.