borrowed time

Time is currency between us.

Nights make sure to last longer so that we can talk for that much more.

From your apartment, I can hear the clamor of the city outside.

I never knew what life smelled like before.

You’ve always had a taste for New York, but I’m still getting used to the flavor.

I look out the window -- if I can see them, can they see us?

Threadbare sheets against my skin remind me of myself, but they cover you just fine.

I can’t help but see our time run down at the sound of your alarm every morning when you leave.

Nights make sure to to end quicker, so that I don’t have the chance to fall asleep.

Your brother’s wedding was the longest night of my life,

and you thought it was so funny that I didn't know how to dance.

The wine was redder because it tried to match my face when you looked at me.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue--

the deafening bells of clarity never rang so clearly.

But I’ve always lived my life like a ghost,

and I fear I’ll pass through the walls of our home like I’ve passed through all the walls in my life.

I feel so small from being worn down to threadbare sheets.

And I will always spend my life running away from the possibility I’ll be in a place where I can’t.

Time is bought and sold, but never returned.

I would buy us another night if I could afford it.

The door won’t give away which direction I’ve gone in when you get home,

and a restless city moves on as the sun sets

and the night begins.