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Dark, the night morphs slowly toward dawn.
In its last vestige, the moment in which night becomes morning,
he speaks to me.
I refer to him as "he" only to supplicate my own delusional need
to believe that a women could not be so cruel,
as he sometimes can,
as if my relationship with the women I have known is in any way reflective
of that misguided notion, " a hundred times loved, a hundred times scorned,"
metaphorically speaking.

"Hello?" I question as he settles beside me.
"It is just I," he responds, ever so proper, as he begins another tale,
a tale of me.
This is not the first time he has visited, in fact I can not remember an instance
when I did not feel the weight of his presence
heavy against me.
He lingers only shortly before his words fill my ears.
It is not something I wish to hear and I want to call him Liar,
but he does not lie.

Yes, he is sometimes cruel, but not for the sake of cruelty,
only in so much as the world is cruel, life is cruel.  He can not see the cruelty,
can not feel it.
He speaks to me of what's to come and now I listen.
In the past I had derided him with disdain and sarcasm.
I ignored him,
but, as the sun sets ever more briefly in my diminished evening,
I have become aware of how little my youthful ignorance of him actually meant.
I should have listened.

He does not care if I love or hate him, rebuke or heed him.
The signs and words are meant only to inform me, to allow me to choose,
to see my fate.
I remember past years when we spoke, specifically one new year.
The clock had just chimed the twelfth mid-night bell and I said,
"You are young again."
I recounted the story of how the old man is no longer with us, 
and how it is a moment for new beginnings,
rebirth.

"Your hopeful, simplistic ideals are endearing," he said,
"and I can appreciate you for what you are, because without you,
I would not be here."
He paused for a breath, "but I have never been young, nor have I ever aged,"
then looking into the distance with no expression upon his ageless face, he said,
"I exist."
At that moment the axioms of which he spoke dawned clearly on me.
I looked at the lines on my hands, felt my weakened muscles, my slowing gate.
He spoke only truth.

Without need for emotion, the words seemed unkind but he had no need to hate.
There was no animosity nor piousness in his tone,
neither was there love.
He wanted no accolades but never begged, for he was not king nor pauper.
The sun did not set for him and the moon sang no lullaby to appease him.
For years I did not hear him.
As life left its scars on my fragile heart, mind and body, then and only then 
did I begin to more earnestly listen to what my companion relayed to me
in his vacuous way.

Now I lie here in this bed, the covers piled beneath my chin, yet shivering.
His words taper off, as if intended, into a meaningless mumble as 
I lose interest.
He rises from his seat and turns from me.  I have never seen him turn away.
I speak, "Time, I will miss you."  He hesitates.  Slowly turning to face me,
he chuckles.
"No, you will not.  Not so much as a memory," he says in his whispered monotone.
"And you, in my existence, will be gone in an instant, like a snuffed candle flame."
Only truth.

I lie thinking about the audacity, the veracity of his last statement.  
I can not deny the truth of what he has foretold nor his sincerity.
It is my reality.
My body shakes with the cold that eats at my will 
making it difficult for my thoughts to coalesce.
I can't think.
He catches my eye as he slowly turns away, was that a smile I see.
I close my faded blue eyes for the last time and listen to his final words,
"Sleep now."


01/20/2019
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