what is my time? –
is it the cackling up with the vessels
or mimicking mum’s homemaking
or chuckling with books
or listening to people’s stories...
is it the endless scrolling through screens
or giggling away with a distant friend
or beaming over those emails
or awaiting that message...
is it the grandma's frail and tender touch
or gentle exchanges with the milkman
or attending to the bird songs
or tending to one’s body and breath...
is it the hours arrested daydreaming
or spent in the fear of unknown
or consumed by the past regrets
or reviving from the cacophony of self -
doubt...
can time be owned?
does it really stay mine
or transfigures itself
when others partake in it?
