Divine Clockwork

Angelic silver scorches me with frigid remnants of our time together.

The only thing that has kissed my neck since the spacious crescent of

your upper lip. What I recognized to be heaven.

How all of us could vanish for you yet ever so deeply imprint itself

within me.

Blasphemy how one could simply stop loving another. How shed tears

define pain and the absence of yours display what has come to one

sidedly mean nothing.

I don’t understand.

How you’ve coded clock hands to scribe backward, forward, and take

break in the presence of yours. The warmth of your fingertips trickling

down an arched spine of nonfiction.

How ancient slopes of grain can continue to pass through this

disfigured mold of hourglass. Assumed to embody the sandstorm

I don’t understand.

How supposedly time is set to mend the missing pages of our story.

Vacant as the sun shades in shadow.

The cuckoo of “I love you” does not echo.

Nowhere near the ear splitting siren of heartless pity resounding.

Time I’m encouraged to neglect. Time I’m expected to heal.

Time without you, I miss you.

Take your time they say.

Though “forever” only lasts months.

Though the longer I walk, the worse my soles ache.

The droughted crackle at my heel in vivid opposition to the glowing

hydration of my cheeks.

If only time could repeat itself.

Couldn’t hands align for just one moment.