Time

Time does not heal all wounds. 

Each moment that I miss you pulls the edges apart little by little, bringing fresh blood and constant, throbbing pain.  Each awakening to a new day only reminds me of other days spent with you, and the time I wish I could share with you.  When I close my eyes at night another tally mark is made on an invisible but all-too-real page in a book of more blank pages whose count is unknown to me.  

Time is not my healer, not a gentle and silent physician who visits daily to sooth me.  It is a cruel master that I must follow over and over again to a room where I am whipped mercilessly.  Then it shape-changes to a strict schoolmarm slashing at my past mistakes in red ink.

It is an empty theater whose stage hosts specters depicting scenes of my memoirs; and sometimes acting out weakly and sadly scenes titled “I wish”, “If Only”, and “Maybe One Day”.