Hands on a clock,
Tick in an achingly,
repetitive tone,
Bringing my life to a new moment.

I can no longer
remember her voice,
nor the exact shade
of her hair.

The seconds spin to minutes,
memories turn to nothing,
as my hands unconsciously
grab,
for something –
for anything,
to hold onto.

She used to put her palm,
to mine,
her heat,
bringing warmth to my icy
fingers.

Minutes bring every hour,
the clock,
striking constantly,
in anger,
like the hateful red slashes,
littered across our arms,
matching,
in a gruesome, horrible way.

Hours, they count to days,
the days she’s been gone,
the days of silence,
as I lie on the cold floor,
remembering her bitter tears,
crashing to this very ground.

Days have become weeks,
constantly in solitary,
with only
her pictures,
to bring me company.

Weeks pile up to months,
new pages in my calendar.
I keep on finding
her old things,
like that bottle of nail polish,
a shiny pale blue,
identical,
to her stunning eyes.

Months change to years,
and I no longer wait,
by the phone,
hoping to hear her voice.
I no longer check,
the mail,
for that small chance,
that she could send me
a letter, a postcard.
I’ve stopped waiting.

Hands on a clock,
Tick in an achingly,
familiar tone,
Bringing my life to a new moment.