I measure the time by how long my nails have grown, not by days or by weeks or by hours.
I measure the time by cigarettes burnt, sleepless nights and hot salty tears.
I measure the time by my clothes hanging looser, and how the dust settles on my room.
I measure the time by the change of my face, the spread of my eyebrows beyond their usual shape.

I measure the time by the pile of laundry, how many dishes are stacked, not by days or by nights.
I measure the time by how many bruises I have, the new marks on my skin, the scratches and scars.
I measure the time by the smell of my sheets, and the knots in my hair.
I measure the time by the collection of abandoned pills by my bed.

I measure the time by how the oranges rot, and how the milk has curdled, not by the days on the calender.
I measure the time by the rain and the sun and how I sleep through it all.
I measure the time by the phases of hunger, the waves of sickness, the empty weight of pain.
I measure the time by how dull the ache is, or by how crippling the thoughts.

I measure the time by how I remember your voice, or the way your skin felt, not by how long since I saw you last.
I measure the time by how far the cracks spread, how I crumble with memories, the lack of air in my lungs.
I measure the time by breaking, and bending, and caving and hiding.
I measure the time by withdrawal, the withdrawal from you.