They say time heals all wounds.

It's a lie.

Time creates wounds. It leaves scars that won't fade and makes you realize your life is futile. You work so hard to get ahead, to make a name for yourself but want comes of it?

You allow your heart all the pleasures it could ever want and you chase excitement on your fingertips.

The unexpected is terrifying but thrilling and you feel an adrenaline rush when you try something crazy.

You reach a new high. It makes you dizzy.

This is youth. Reckless abandonment.

Wild. Untamed. Free.

Then your heart grows weary and you're suddenly so tired of scotch burning your throat and grinding against an unfamiliar face. You're so sick of mindless games and risky bets it makes you ill. Kissing strangers in a closet and body shots suddenly seems so juvenile.

So your heart searches for something more permanent.

You want stability and your heart jumps at the first sign of romance.

For me it was Sam. We met at a party. She was flirty and I was wasted so my ears liked the sound of the slurred compliments she showered over me. I guess I expected it to be a fling but then we started holding hands and bonding over small things: favorite radio stations and smoothies. I liked Sam but our relationship lacked depth. Sure, we were intimate and she made me feel good but I never felt completely satisfied.

I was less than excited when I had to take English literature my senior year. Like I hadn't already proved my sufficieny in the English language. Liam told me he'd sign up for the same class to make it slightly less miserable.

I showed up twenty minutes late on the first day of class, a noticable hickey on my neck and I remember it clearly.

He just smiled sweetly and said "nice of you to join us Harry."

It made my blood boil. I rolled my eyes and sat texting on my phone the entire time. When I got up to leave he asked me if it was worth it. I was confused until his gaze fell on the marks on my neck and I nearly fainted, the tint of my cheeks the color of a budding rose.

"Fuck off."

"You seem smart, surely there are other words in your vocabulary."

"My sincerest apologies."

"I like you. You know why?"

"I don't really care."

"Because there's a fire within you that can't be put out."

"Yeah but here you are trying to put me out."

"That's where you're wrong Harry, I'm gasoline. I'm your fuel."

"Are you as good at teaching as you are getting under people's skin?"

"I don't know," his eyes glimmer. "Your skin it pretty thick."

And he laughed at me. Laughed because I was supposed to be the raging fire but he still found a way to burn me.

...

I wanted to hate his jokes and the way he tried so hard to relate to the students in class. I wanted to hate the wide rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and the sound of his laughter.

It's hard to fabricate hate.

He told us to write a poem on the third day of school and mine was about hate.

it's such a strong word

we don't even know

the havoc it wreaks,

its power and

the hearts that it breaks

it slips off his tongue

before he can think

he tries to take it back

but it's too fucking late

"I hate you; you're worthless"

his own life to take

"Is there something you want to talk about?"

"Not really," I mutter.

"Hey," he lowers his voice and grabs my arm. "This is serious. Depression can be life threatening."

"This class is depressing," I grumble.

"Is there anything I can do to make it more enjoyable?"

I felt like shit. He actually cared. All I did was raise hell and make snarky remarks. That didn't bother him a bit. He always made the effort to check on me.

I couldn't deny the effect he had on my eyes either.

Ethereal.

That's all I could think of.

His long black lashes fluttered like delicate wings as he blinked, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip and all I could think to say was

"I actually do like poetry, I swear."

He chuckled, his amber eyes sparkling and replied "me too, that's why I teach English."

For several weeks I waged an internal war, fighting between wanting to despise him and wanting to give the class a chance but the first unit was as boring as watching weeds grow.

I was too concerned with staying out late and getting shit-faced. I was wasting precious time fucking Sam and going to night clubs, my hips swaying to the loud bass.

Time.

Everything comes back to time.

Time dwindles. Time passes. Times drags.

Time flies.

"I don't have enough time."

"What a waste of time."

"She got there just in time."

"What time is it?"

"It's about damn time."

"For the last time."

"Please be timely."

"His time is running short."

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

We stare transfixed at the clock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

We don't know what we're waiting for. We're anxious and impatient by nature.

Tick tock.

Time runs out.

...

"He didn't even give me the time of day."

Time. I glance at the woman behind me in line, studying the way her eyes crinkle at the corners and the wrinkles between her wiry brows.

It looks like she's been around for quite some time. I'm sure she's had her fair share of heartache and adventure.

We did a small unit on Rilke and read Again and Again which is one of my all-time favorite poems.

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love

and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,

and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others

fall: again and again the two of us walk out together

under the ancient trees, lie down again and again

among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

In response I wrote

Time and Again

i asked time

once again

because my

words fell dark

like the middle

of the night

they weren't

luminous

like when Rilke

said them

but they both

fell

into that same

silent abyss

At some point in life your heart finally finds the one and settles down.

You think your life is special; that it means something and that you'll leave an impact on the world.

Usually our lives don't leave marks.

But time continues to dwindle.

And our lives come to and end.