Time Crimes Poem by Brevet Wilson

She drove as I fiddled with the radio.
I was stealing looks at her,
young, fresh, clean.
and oh my god her cleavage was hypnotizing.
Her eyes had the same sorrow as mine.
The wounded,
they know each other when they see each other
instinctively.
Like 2 sick junkies passing each other on the street.
They can just tell.
You can see the emptiness where something or someone use to be.

Spending time with her was like stealing from death.
It was time taken out of time.
She, young and beautiful,
Once she held my corpse and said
'We are the same, you and I'.
I laughed,
A harsh,
mean, laugh that said
'You're right, we are. But that's none of your business'.

She sat on the grass
legs out stretched,
I would lie my head on her thighs.
She looked down at me and sweetly said
'Do you love me a little? '
A line from a film I had intrduced her to.
I answered with:
'What time is it? '

It was all time out of time.
Time stolen from the jaws of death
The death that nibbles away the hours,
the minutes,
the seconds of our lives so slowly we rarely even notice.
Laying there,
in the grass,
in the park,
we were co-conspiritors
stealing time from time
stealing it from death itself.
Stealing time from each other.

Such a fine line,
it occurs to me as I write this
between 'stealing' and 'wasting' sometimes.

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