The Archaeology of Hours
In the museum of my kitchen,
I excavate the strata of days,
coffee rings on the counter like tree rings,
each circle marking a morning survived.
The clock on the wall is a liar,
pretending its hands move forward
when really they spiral inward,
tightening like a fist around memory.
I find artifacts everywhere:
a receipt from three years ago,
a shopping list in handwriting
I recognize but can no longer claim as mine.
Time doesn't pass, it accumulates.
It settles like dust in corners,
builds up like plaque on teeth,
layers itself like sediment in stone.
Yesterday exists in geological time:
compressed, fossilized, permanent.
Tomorrow is still vapor, still forming
in the atmosphere above my head.
But today?
Today is the thin line
where excavation meets deposition,
where what I've been becomes
what I'm busy burying.
I am both archaeologist and artefact,
both the digger and the dug,
slowly revealing myself to myself
one careful brushstroke at a time.
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