A Matter of Time

Whenever I’m alone, As usually I am these days, I make room to acknowledge The weight of my own presence By minding the tide of my breath. It flows in on a four-count With the ease of deliberate intent Advancing toward its seawall limit. It flows out on an eight-count Revealing a beachcomber’s dream. In that moment my mind envisions Outstretched sands littered by time With everything ever’s been lost By all romantic searchers Navigating treacherous seas. It isn’t hard to feel unloved. It’s easy as taking a breath and letting it go. Letting go of everything Is all one really gets to do. It’s just a matter of time.