The Seconds Learned to Run (Pure Distillation)

The day began as a pale shimmer,
a thin ribbon of light unraveling
across the floorboards
as if it had forgotten how to be morning.
The air tasted faintly of old flowers
and something sweeter —
a memory that hadn’t happened yet,
pressing its forehead against the window
as though asking to be let in.

 

The clocks kept their distance,

hovering in the corners

like shy animals

that no longer trusted their own instincts.

Their faces glowed faintly,

not with purpose,

but with the soft embarrassment

of creatures who know

they’ve lost the race

to the very thing they were built to measure.

 

You appeared beside me

with that drifting, half-awake grace,

your outline wavering

as if the room couldn’t decide

whether to keep you or dream you.

Your hand brushed mine

and the moment stretched —

thin as a soap bubble,

fragile as a whispered apology —

before snapping back

with a quiet, startled gasp.

 

Outside, the sky folded into itself,

a slow, deliberate motion

like someone closing a book

mid-sentence.

The trees leaned inward,

their branches trembling

with the weight of too many seasons

arriving all at once.

Even the wind seemed confused,

carrying fragments of conversations

that hadn’t been spoken yet.

 

I felt the hours slipping past my ribs,

soft and luminous,

like fish moving through shallow water.

They didn’t hurry out of malice —

only inevitability.

The minutes blurred into streaks of color,

gentle and insistent,

as if painting over the edges

of everything I thought I recognized.

 

You rested your head on my shoulder

and the world tilted,

just slightly,

just enough for the future

to spill a little into the present.

We breathed in unison,

trying to anchor ourselves

to something slower,

something kinder,

something that wouldn’t dissolve

the moment we touched it.

 

But the seconds had already learned to run.

They darted through the room

like silver insects,

leaving trails of warmth

that faded almost instantly.

I reached for one,

just to feel its shape,

but it slipped through my fingers

with a soft, apologetic hum.

 

And still we sat there,

two silhouettes in a room

that couldn’t hold still,

listening to the quiet acceleration

of everything around us —

the gentle, unstoppable rush

of a world forgetting

how to move slowly.

 

N.P.: “A Different Drum” – Peter Gabriel