Killing Time/ Living Life

you don't find them,

and they don't find you.

the Hands that hold the universe,

the Hands that hold you,

hang the stars just right

so that the light hits your face perfectly,

the warmth of their beams fill all of you up,

and you just come together.

you start out writing stories together,

creating characters based on who you want to marry one day,

and the next thing you know,

you're crying into the table at 2 PM

and you're stomach is hurting

because laughter won't let your abdomens unhinge,

and in your head you're like, "this is it;

this is what life feels like,"

without regard for how much longer you have together.

before you know it, you're graduating from high school,

and she's the one who reminds you "not yet!"

when you take your cap off to celebratorily

throw it into the air.

and you have no idea what numbers

the hands of the clock are pointing to;

you could care less if it's time to eat or take your medicine.

she can't decide whether to pick

or strum her guitar

so she does both as she pleases,

and the tide figures out the nooks and crannies between her toes.

our moms giggle a few yards down the beach,

and the sun is just now going to sleep.

we have no idea how long it will be before we're all in bed,

and I don't care;

none of us do.

she wears the lip gloss that you gave her for Christmas,

and reminds you that classrooms don't have to be prison cells.

and you know that when she goes home,

she doesn't enter a whole new world;

this is exactly who she is all the time.

she is genuine.

and you get eight hours with her,

once a week in a four-walled room,

but you've lived a thousand immortal lives

in just the smiles you've shared together.

he goes with you to drive-thrus,

and laughs when you curse the slow drivers in front of you;

he lets you rant to him through text messages,

and responds so meaningfully

even though he could care less,

and there's nothing wrong with that.

he reminds you that you're still a musician,

even though you just play the tambourine,

and people will tell you that your high school relationships won't last,

but if you're catching on, you've started to notice

that time doesn't really phase us.

they come to your dance recital with flowers;

they visit you when you're fresh out of the hospital.

they navigate Homer's Odyssey with you

until your eyes are sore from the strain of taking notes

on all those gods.

people say that the time we have on earth is limited,

that we should live life while we can

and not just kill time.

but if making your way through age,

through time, and through life,

by repeatedly glancing back over your shoulder

to see what the clock says,

is not living.

because taking the time to see what time it is

is wasting time,

and if beautiful things lasted,

they would not be beautiful,

they would be ordinary.

kill time; slit its throat in the name

of memory-making,

and chasing ghosts under a pink sunset.

you can't get used to life,

or it'll lose it's power.

it will lose it's purpose

under the reign of how you let

the numbers on the microwave

or the hands on your watch

dictate which adventures you choose.

when it comes to adventures,

you don't find them,

and they don't find you.

the Hands that hold the universe,

the Hands that hold you,

hang the stars just right...