what time is made of

I'll never again feel what I'm thinking.
Or think what I'm feeling.
I can't distinguish either anyway.

Perhaps one day when I'm old
(and somewhat wrinkled),
i'll play an old mixtape.
I'll become,
once again, the gist of what
I was,
those days when I made the tape.
And even the feelings and thoughts
that remain anonymous
will be there.
I'll laugh and I'll smile perhaps
what is the (somewhat toothless) smile
of someone
who has felt and seen and thought
time.

Or perhaps not, the irony here being
that only time
will tell.