You want me to tell you this is not the way out.
It isn't. But only because I never you let in.
You want me to tell you it is not time yet. And it isn't. It's tomorrow. Or the day before.
A speck of sand. A pinch of dust. A grain of ash. A mote of salt. Something sticks in the hourglass' throat.
You spend time like money, as though you could earn more if you needed it.
I have a bag full of stolen moments. I will sell them to you for a song.