There’s a better place than here,
I said.
It’s at least twelve times prettier,
And it has twelve days in every week.
There are twelve rainbows after every storm
Instead of, maybe, only three.
The hourglasses are twelve hours long,
I reminded him,
Just like on Earth,
So, that’s not confusing.
But, there are three twelve-hour parts
Instead of only two.
I made it that way,
I explained,
Because it reminded me of you.
And love,
I said,
Isn’t frivolous; there are at least thirteen words
In this language, alone,
To specify your direct meaning.
I got tired,
I shrugged,
Of all the important parts
Being lost in the shuffle of things.
We can go tomorrow,
I suggested,
Since it takes twelve times ’til Tuesday.
And all of what you love most, here,
Can be packed in photo-boxes.
He looked at me like I was mad,
Like I had lost my mind.
And though I did – once or twice or thrice before,
And nearly a fourth time –
The funny thing about photography
Is you keep a picture of things;
And reference tools break all the rules
So, I found it thrice again.
And, once I’d played lost-and-found
Those thrice-over times,
I found a portal to a magic place
Where I could find my heart again.
Stranger yet is learning, next,
That, once one’s lost their mind,
Finding pieces of one’s heart
Becomes an easier thing.
It took some convincing,
I’ll tell you that,
For him to believe I wasn’t crazed.
But, when we’d traveled eleven times
And nearly passed next Wednesday,
He saw that, just around the time
That the sands were almost fallen
The world I’d promised was just beyond
At precisely twelve times ’til Tuesday.
