“The Hours We Misplaced”

I kept a jar of hours once,
each one a small, bright stone.
I swore I’d build a road with them—
but my hands grew tired,
and the jar grew light.

Now the path lies somewhere else,
trampled by grass I do not know.
When I reach for the stones,
I find only dust,
soft as breath, gone as quickly.

Still, I hear them sometimes—
the laughter pressed inside a wall,
the footsteps folded into dusk.
They call, but not for me.

The hours are not cruel;
they are simply gone.
It is only I who lingers,
a shadow standing in the place
where the road never was.