and then

i have no words to name the season.
the ink well has run dry and i can suck no more water from it... i am afraid to let my hands fall from my grip on today. on the now. i hold it so close because i have lost so many nows, thinking only of that-one-time's and when-i-was's and back-in-the-day's. i try to hold now so close and not let it slip away, for it is the slipperiest of times and loves to run out while i stare into space.

i wish i could yell at now, and have it hear me. but it always looks away.