So Many of Your Days

You have given me so many of your days.
Not in wrapped boxes or ribboned hours,
not in the small ceremonies of choice,
but in the silent tithe of your attention—
the steady leaking of minutes into thought,
the surrender of afternoons
to the shape of my name.

I never asked.
I never reached across the distance
to demand your gaze,
yet here I am—
woven into your hours
like thread you cannot unpick.
I move through my own design,
stacking dream upon dream,
while you sit as custodian of my shadow,
measuring your life by the contour of mine.

What strange generosity this is,
to crown me sovereign
of your private clock,
to bend the metronome of your mind
to the rhythm of my steps.
What strange devotion,
to carve altars from your silence
and light them daily in my name.

For what you grant your thoughts,
you gift your hours.
And what you surrender your hours to,
you make the master of your days.

So I am not only here,
but everywhere in you.
Your mornings rise with me,
your nights collapse beneath me,
and the restless middle
is filled with my ghost.

And though I never wished
to own a kingdom such as this—
though your offerings fall
unwanted at my feet—
still, the ledger speaks.
Still, the truth resounds:

in giving me so much of your days,
you have made me eternal.
And I, who asked for nothing,
have become the victor of your hours.

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