(untitled)

Listen. Time's a wasting. That's what she said to me, what she said right before she died. And then? And then she laughed and said that she was just kidding, and that I should see the look on my face. Her hand fell out of mine and never moved again... Time's a wasting. Time is a wasting. Is Time itself wasting? Or is Time truly "a wasting." Anyway... Listen. Time's a wasting. Light finds the holes in the curtains and slips in, shines in on the floor. There's dust, making it all visible and it moves as she passes through it. She looks at me, but not at me, and turns away, but not away from me. Life is eternal in this moment, and there is only she, only she and me. And now? Alone and cold, left, sorry, and regretful. Truly missing. Missing all of those gone moments, the ones eased out or blown away. Missing the warmth, the hugs and smiles and laughs. Missing. Missing just knowing they are there. Knowing they are there to forget, there to make the missing okay, bearable. Just one moment back, even if it was to once more take advantage of having it. Just one. One to stop the confusion upon waking up. One to stop the tears even though they burn, and crush, even though they are real. Listen. Time's a wasting. That's what she said to me.