Thick

The jar sits amber in the morning light—

three months of waiting in a glass.

I watched the molasses pour, so tight

and slow, refusing to pass

through the bowl like time moves now,

heavy and certain, refusing to bow.

Each second was a small confession:

this is how I move through the days,

coated in my own expression,

the way the spoon plays

through the amber, draped and slow,

the way nothing wants to go.

I left it there, half-full,

pushed the jar back on the shelf.

The lesson sits dull

and patient: I move like myself,

like molasses, like something that knows

the difference between moving and going slow.