4:03 AM

Time is what we make of it, I say, unaware of who I have angered.

Time is mine to squander, mine to waste, mine to ruin.

The irony is not lost to me, trying to reach for my phone.

No blood, no sign of anything amiss.

Just a piece of food stuck in my throat.

Time is not on my side.

Its beauty visible through the half drawn curtains,

the sun in hues of orange like spilled ink.

A lopsided view, buildings poking out of the ground like needles.

I called my friends, none picked up.

Called the ambulance, and dared to hope.

There was a rogue traffic jam, ruining people’s days, and others’ lives.

Time is a powerful enemy.

The clock seems to laugh, displaying 5:03 AM

It was such an untimely death, the neighbour cries.

​We are what time makes us.