Time doesn’t add up, traveling at light speed until it burns out into a memory. 

Petals fill the gaps as my feet weave between them in ecstasy, saying “hello” and goodbye” within the same breath. I can’t seem to remember them more than just a souvenir of my romanticization. My footsteps never stopped aching, however, set down between the shade and topaz glow.

Money doesn’t grow on trees; neither does certainty, neither does the start, neither does the end. I aways move with the tempo of time, excluding when it moves at light speed. I can’t keep up. Flowers, blinding smiles, aching footsteps; it all moves offbeat, even when I tell it to follow my lead. When it all gets left behind, there is nothing to lead, nothing to conduct.

If only I could drink from the hose again. 

My fuzzy memory can only recollect so much. I want to give everything a name—a lasting label. My crystal-clear hippocampus often can’t organize these things so well anymore. Choosing to alter the tempo of time would ruin everything, but I can’t keep myself from it. 

Switching between crescendo and subsiding is always my will to lead. My fuzzy orchestra of petals and shade can never seem to play well beside one another. 

Maybe there’s beauty within all of the smoke, mirrors, and fuzz.

Money doesn’t grow on trees; neither does certainty, neither does the start, neither does the end. I aways move with the tempo of time, excluding when it moves at light speed. I can’t keep up.

I’m not brave enough to tell this kid that he is nothing more than a romanticization of my disorganized labels. I hope that the flowers distract him. Maybe his smile would be brighter, not caring about if he’ll ever run the hose dry again. 

I couldn’t bet on how the petals came or how they exit, I can only be reminiscent of them. I wish I could experience everything like I felt the flowers, blinding smiles, and aching footsteps. I know that little kid felt them, though. I would’ve given everything to live through it with him, but that’s his story. 

I can’t wait to articulate that part of the story, even when angel wings come out of my back. 

I hope that kid doesn’t care. I hope he keeps reaching his hands towards the blaze, wishing he’ll one day reach the blue and white. I hope he keeps analyzing the petals. I hope they analyze him back.

The petals speak to each other in awes of uncoordinated symphonies, growing only for the blaze and hose that keep to them every day. They grew for the the kid too. The same kid who judged and considered them every day. The same kid who fed them with the same hose he fed himself.

My orchestra continues to subside every time we play. I regret telling them to move with the tempo of time as I did. I just hope the petals and aching feet are still able to play in consonance. They never cease to follow the tempo of my conducting, not time’s. Some of the offbeat emphasis could be blamed on myself; I can’t keep a clear head. I am always imagining.

If only I could drink from the hose again.