Unkind Companion

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

TIME has never carried me gently.
It flicks hours off its sleeve
like crumbs from an old shirt,
pushes the days downhill
faster than my feet can follow.
I have lived whole years
that felt like a door closing
while I was still inside.

With her,
it was a jealous companion;
rushing the mornings,
slipping the afternoons
through its fingers,
stealing the nights
just when our joy
began to find its rhythm.

I begged it to slow down,
to let me linger
inside the sweetness
of her voice,
inside the tenderness
of her palms,
inside the mint
of her breath,
but time only grinned
and galloped.

Now look at its cruelty;
all that speed
is stilled.

She has gone,
and time has lost
its gluteus maximus.

Days perch on the windowsill
like birds refusing flight.
The hour hand drags
as if pulling a wounded foot.
Time, once a thief,
now a jailer;
locking me within
every room she touched.

Her sweat still lives
in the folds of our bedsheets,
a soft, familiar ache
that will not wash away.

Her spices cling stubbornly
to the kitchen air;
pepper, thyme,
that tiny hint of ginger
she said made every meal
less lonely.

And in the closet,
her dresses wait
with the patience of widowed flowers,
their sleeves hanging
as though hoping for her arms
to return.

On the table lies her ring,
the one she kissed each night
before she found sleep,
a small, unblinking circle
that holds more silence
than any clock I own.

Time—
once unkind
for running too fast—
unkind still,
for refusing
to move me past
the places
where she remains.