The Race Against Time

“Why do you always leave first?”
I stumble forward, breathless, concerned.
The streets are alive, a chaotic stream,
Yet you’re already a distant figure in a dream.
Your shadow lingers, a sunrise glow,
Though you’ve vanished where I can’t go.
“Because I know you’ll catch up,” you say,
Laughing, dodging a man in the way.
The city smells of coffee and oil,
A whirlwind of voices, a life in turmoil.
“I’m like a ninja,” you grin with pride,
“Silence and speed are what I abide by.”
Your footprints, though, still mark the way,
Through sands that cling at the close of day.
“I thought ninjas were supposed to hide.”
Your gaze drifts to the sea, wide.
“The tide comes in when it’s ready,
And leaves seashells for patient eyes.”
“Well then, you’re the tide,” I tease, bemused,
“But I’m not ready for the tsunami that will bruise.”
“You’ll drown standing there,” your loud warning,
Then you walk into the sea’s shifting sheen.
It pulls you in, a force untamed,
Sharp strokes cutting where waters are claimed.
“I think you’re racing the calendar now.”
I sit by the pool, my hand on my brow.
“I’m just racing time,” you reply with flair,
Adjusting your goggles, no sign of despair.
“And I’m always ahead, but I’ll turn around,
If ever you stumble or hit the ground.”
You wink as you dive, the stopwatch still,
While I dangle my feet and admire your will.
“If you’re ahead of time, then warn me of rain,”
I complain as the storm clouds the windowpane.
You hand me an umbrella, swift and sound,
And step into the downpour, rain all around.
“I can outswim time, but not the weather,”
You laugh as the rain soaks us together.
“Darling, I’ll build you a raft, you’ll see,
Or teach you to dance in the rain with me.”
Your hug is warm, though drenched and absurd,
I push you back but savour your word.
“God, you’re like a wet dog!” I cry.
You howl to the storm, your declaration to the sky.
“To time, the swimmer who falters,”
We toast with laughter that never alters.
Yet your dimples hide; your thoughts are far,
Trailing the edge of where you are.
“You’re not even listening to them,” I softly confess.
“Don’t worry,” you murmur, “I’ve heard it, I guess.”
The music swells as you turn to the flame,
And I feel the distance, though you remain.
“You always leave me in the cold,” I say.
Your eyes flicker, concerned in their sway.
“You’re not cold, you’re just... hold on.”
And again, everything moves on.
We’re children on that frozen shore,
Where icy water bites and currents roar.
I slip below; your grip holds tight,
Your voice steady through the wintry night.
“Hold on, this time, I’m not letting go,” you vow,
Fierce and steady as the ice breaks now.
“I’m not letting go,” I yell in return,
As the wheels of your bike spin fast and burn.
You’re a bolt of speed, the hill aglow,
I’m chasing, but my steps are slow.
Like the  book on a shelf, too high to find,
You are always too far from my hand.
“There you go, Thumbelina,” you tease,
Handing me what I could not reach.
You turn to leave, as you always do,
Your rhythm faster than I could pursue.
“You never wait!” I cry in despair,
Running to catch the train’s heavy air.
Tropical heat, the earth’s wet perfume,
“You’ve got to catch me,” you say with a tune.
But when the train jolts, your hand finds mine,
A fleeting grasp, firm, aligned.
“Will you ever stop running?” I yell in the blur,
The landscape bending, the wind a slur.
You pause just long enough to climb,
Over the estate wall, a feat sublime.
“Will you ever stop chasing a ghost in the air?”
You smirk, extending a hand with care.
Still my fingers miss; you slip once more,
The city’s hum swallows you like before.
A rush of voices, a tide of the streets,
My steps falter, my lips repeat:
“Why do you always leave first?”