And Only Mine

And Only Mine

I used to feel
a misplaced sense of accomplishment
when I’d catch the clock
right as the minute switched—
like I’d witnessed a special moment
never to be repeated,
and only mine.

But when I started catching minutes
all the time, like backwards glances,
and thought about time as a construct
and the discrepancies between
your wall clock and my wind-up,
the feeling struck
twelve post meridiem
—a paradox in itself, as at 12
the sun’s not before or after—
it’s being here now,
the peak before
the falling action
or setting sun
from which I now derive such comfort
when I catch it
rose-bud-blooming
in the distance,

and I pinch its soft circle
between thumb and index
of my minute hand,
and catch myself sliding
one notch past now—
never to be repeated,
and only mine.