by Sara Khayat

We sat on your
porch and lit the
years on fire. Burned
them to the filter and
then to the ground.

Far too reckless with
the fires that we started
but you better believe
we were burnt out
or put out
(of our misery).

The years are
ashes stored
somewhere in
the hippocampus
or the amygdala
waiting for you to
want them or need

And then the light
on your porch began
flickering and
fainting in and out of
consciousness and the
years began wilting and
wrinkling and the time—

Oh the time it passed by us
like a speeding car. We felt
the motion, helpless broken
down on the side of the road
with no place to go but

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