a day for the poet

she spent the day spinning stories with silver strings he had left outside to turn to gold. sometimes when you take things too early they become something else entirely for someone else than you ever intended. the words were worth more than their weight and she waited around for the later train because she wasn’t ready to give it up. he kept asking her what the sense was in changing all the starters and resewing all the seams when what you ended up with wasn’t what you thought you need. there are huge gray spaces between the times we know for sure while we traverse from one scene to the next, before we hang the pictures on our new walls. in those spaces are where the secrets lie. so she traveled night and day for three months to find these secrets sleeping caves and she planned to tie their hands and feet together with the silver strings and haul them home to him to show the truth. but as soon as she set sail the world started folding in on itself and suddenly where she had come from was where she was going and there was no where to turn around to. it was too late. she rode on toward a sun that never set, it only hit the horizon to come up again so the days never ended, never turned over, never became something new. she knew she was in the waiting space. she had read it once in a book as a child and the collection of people that get caught there. she was worried and wondered if she ran fast enough, if she could outrun the sun. it was on this day, at this time that she met the time traveler. and the rest is history.

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