Our Side of the Lake

The clock has stopped.
At least, it seems like it. We hope it has.
Time seems frozen, and all is quiet.
All except us,
whispering in the silence.
The sounds of the traffic cannot completely reach us here,
here next to a quiet lake with many roads across it.
Roads drawn long by the streetlights,
drawn by the moon,
drawn by the starlight.
The roads waver, and sway, never disappear.
But we stay here, on the dark side of the water.
This side is quieter, this side is sweeter.
This side affords us the luxury of not counting the minutes between light cycles,
And ignoring the chime of the crosswalk.
These things have time and purpose.
They are predictable as the impending dawn,
They keep asphalt Life on the move.
Stately and timely, go and stop.

But on our side, it is hushed.
We can only hear Time distantly.
Our side of the lake has grass and trees.
Benches are barely discernable in the blackness,
and the path is only a black smear under our feet.
I know that down this smear lies the ticking of a clock,
and that soon we must be reminded of it.

But not yet.
Not yet.

We count the steps back to time reluctantly.
Each is accounted for with equally uncounted kisses.
Eight steps.
Ten steps.
Time is still on hold.
It awaits our approach back to the light before crashing into our awareness.
As we reach the road, flooded with that orange glow,
We become conscious of Time again,
and we must resist that overwhelming desire to flee back into the warp.
Run back into that silence and timelessness
that exists on our side of the lake.