my days are spent sprinting,
my head tilted and low, my weary legs kicking.
the blind clock ticking.

the pace is set by 4 suits i just met:
two greys, a navy and a pin-stripe quartet,
whose rhythm i can't quite get.
with my overtime pay, can i buy an hour?

just sixty minutes to close my dry eyes,
to fold my hands over my stomach and hear my own deep sighs,
to stop and think, perhaps sneak in a feeling
of peace. of love. of hurting. of healing.
white-knuckled fists and palms raised to the ceiling.

one hour with an elbow on my desk,
allowing the side of my face, upon a flat hand, to rest.
a hand rubbing a temple, instead of beating a chest.

one hour to see you.
one hour to see you seeing me.
one hour to just be.
one hour to just be loved by thee.

don't forget to set your clocks back an hour.