It’s likely I will never
understand
the passage of time.
By the time
I understand
I will have passed time.
Quickly
like the express train.
People
some I know
become blurred colors
along a tiled wall.
Their names
once tiled too in a mosaic of sorts
crumble
and all that is left is a private joke
as private as can be
because it’s with me now.
I see myself at the turnstile
at the 18th Street station.
What do I do?
I can’t get on the local now.
It’s too late.
Much
I have to let her go.
She’ll be fine, I whisper.
That’s what her colors tell me.
Subway metaphor
and yadda yadda, an aliyah blog 
Oh so wise. I feel the blurring – of time, of people – as well. It’s disconcerting.
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Yes, it is. I wonder if it’s better to be the blurred or the person with the blurry image? It’s is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind question I’ve been turning over in my head lately
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Time is more liquid than gold.
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This is an interesting image
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