More Time

6 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon
when reality and dreams melt and blend
in a swirl of chocolate, desire and aftertastes
-the word aftertastes itself always bittersweet
-like cherries dipped in brandy
-and all the pictures from past holidays
that weren’t really holidays but excuses for time
-more time like that-

Beginnings that come to ends and
Ends that never pause or wave
Before they say goodbye
-like that desire from years ago
to be held back
-not in a captivating manner
-but in a desperate attempt for time
-more time like that-

Private made public and
Public never as private as real
All the while wishing it was more or less
-like the need to go away
-like the spring when it was clear
-like that time by the lake
reading poetry wishing for time
-more time like that-

Whatever happened to that time we locked in boxes and ceaseless CDs of songs we rarely hear and newer songs without the memories- the memories that creep not late at night, but early in the mornings and the afternoons. The taste is clear, the flashback isn’t.