The Clock


On days the sun hides

Behind solemn greys

Of nostalgia,

I curl up in the attic of a home

Built with trembling hands

In a winter past;


When the spring birds sang.



Once tenderly birthing love,

Rot in their nascence,

Pressed between pages

Full of you and me

And what we could be.


There’s a clock that stands still

On our single greatest moment:

When you first said

You loved me

And stopped my frantic voices

In their soliloquies.


In that world,

Stuck in a time so dear,

You and I linger

Like unspoken words

Under cozy quilts

Of a silence we held near.



Strangers we may be


But there is a place

Where we live on.

An ounce of time and space

That you can call upon.


You will find me there

On stormy nights,

Reading incomplete chapters

To firewood


Once upon a time,

There was a story unwritten …


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