In a dimly lit room,

Of smoke and ashes,

Her skin shines,

Like a childhood memory.


In the background,

Chris Martin croons,

About how,

He wrote his lover a song.

That was all yellow,

And somehow it makes sense.


“It’s almost 5,” she says.

“I have to go.”

I say nothing.

She says nothing.


Out in the street,

The dogs bark,

And the birds sing their bird songs.

People buy groceries and guns.


Sun sets and rises,

And sets and rises.

Darkness falls and lifts,

And falls and lifts.


Seasons change,

And years fly.

Life comes,

And life goes.


Cobwebs form,

On the ceiling.

And the walls,

And the floor,

And our skeletons.

Einstein said time is relative,

My clock says almost 5.

© Amaan zaidi