Something personal

Time never passes the way we want it to.
Either it passes to slowly or far too fast.

When I cry, my tears dripping down on your spine,
you don't feel them.
But by some strange miracle you still calm yourself under my touch.
My touch, you want.
My voice, you hear.
But my tears are alien to you.

How come God would want someone to feel like this?
As if the twilight will never end, and stop wrapping us in it's soft cloak?
As if dawn will never again be seen through our eyes.
As if the morning sun will never again wrap our bodies with it's light?

A man walks past me, black hood up, hands in his pockets,
disappearing on the street, taking another turn.
The cars passing by,
some knowing their goal, but most, I think, not.

My tears dripping on the paper, the black ink staining.
We cannot do more already,
so where will we find the time to love?