You have never ceased your reaching out, not in all of time or dance of seasons. Or, even in the time we have somehow recoiled from you.

Where have we gone? Somewhere, anywhere, nowhere. Into the air. Not into silence, though. No, caught inside a speeding pace that frazzles, that wearies in its dizzying wake. Because of this, time shrouds your presence.

I pass without seeing you, knowing you. Even to remember how long you reigned before my own kind.

For us, it is never enough to merely be. Stand, stretch, eventually fall. Envy of time is why. We clutch at it dutifully, hoping to become an honored member of its court.

How long did it take you to realize how time passes without seeing, not even to acknowledge your presence?

And did it feel like this?