I tried negotiating with the hour hand—
                            it refused.

Smug little bastard just kept circling,
                                smugly,
     like it had somewhere more important to be.

Minutes pretend they’re marching,
        but I know better.

They meander.

They browse.

They stop to read the backs of cereal boxes.

They ask strangers for directions.

Meanwhile, I’m here—
     fully caffeinated,
     halfway to a productivity badge,
     inbox groaning,
     text thread too quiet,

     already dressed for tonight in my head.

You at your desk.

Me at mine.

Both of us—
     working, maybe,
     waiting, definitely,

     watching the clock like it owes us money.

I don’t need miracles.

Just need the hands to spin faster,
                 sky shadow sooner,
          the space between “now” and “there” to

          tighten

          twist

          *snap*

          into the moment you walk in,
          sun-drunk, city-weary,
          and gloriously over it…
          arms open and eyes soft,
          that look that says,
                “You made it.”

But until then…

I’ll just keep snapping my fingers at time—
     trying to get it to sit,
                        heel,
                        stay…

                  to *behave*