I Realize Time Doesn’t Heal Things

I realize time doesn’t heal things—
I just learned how to forget, how to push thoughts out of my head
& it’s rare, only a couple times a month, where I am completely
transported into the warmth of your room
as if submerged underwater in a heated swimming pool
& you’re looking at me with the kind of gaze that consumes
we’re in the middle of a conversation
like I time traveled without moving an inch
& I stay still because I want to bask
in the sound of your voice as you’re explaining something
& I’m not listening because I’m distracted
by the immensity of my love for you
& fear of losing you
in a way I never did, because I still have this
but then I blink & run my hands along the wall
& take the sheets of my bed in my hands &
I am back where I always am these days—without you,
better off so, only occasionally graced with these lovesick visions
as if watching my life flash before my eyes
following the impact of a car crash. all I can do is lie in the blissful ache
& let it pass, secretly hoping it will take me for good.