fleet, precious.

I remembered in the early hours of today when I was laying in bed with someone important that that exact moment would never happen again. I will never have the same conversation twice, never look at someone's face and see the same something again, never get the chance to hear anything the way I heard it the first time. Sometimes, when I remember, I try to pause myself and look around. I take in the room and the way a particular picture hangs and the way your face looks and the way their laughter sounds and the way the air smells, even; so right and rich. And it's never a perfect moment but I know I have to keep as many as I can.


No one lives breath to breath, but we all want to. I can try to stop everything for a while by tallying all the tiny paint particles on the ceiling, or counting to a million bazillion. Or watching the digital clock blink red in front of me, trying to predict when the numbers will shift, but never getting the timing quite right. I can try to do all of those things but ambulances still speed by and people still buy coffee and rabbits always run across the street and minutes happen and happen and happen and they never happen the same way, not ever again, not once. 


Sometimes I want to cry at how quickly everything moves; but most of all, I want to cry when I realize I'm always forgetting that.