Age is but a number,
numbers we carry for life —
like heartbeats in a minute,
or scars from a surgeon’s knife.

Some numbers hold more value:
some count them on a chart;
others count time together,
or the hours they spend apart.

Time is so unforgiving,
each second a grain of sand;
slipping through our fingers,
slipping through our hands.

A silver pocket watch
sparkles in the sun.
Magpie, watches, waiting,
for its time to come.

How did we arrive here?
Two imposters sharing a bed,
One leading, the other led.

I used to savour those days together.
You remember? Those lazy,
wine-fuelled days.

Our love, under a microscope—
an organism, forever changing,
shifting, moving, never still.

We were not unique, though.
Like weathered rock, gradually ground down
over time, not noticing the change.

Oh, how we’ve changed. Now we dance
a nervous dance,

Our moves—once smooth—are
rigid and awkward. We bump and
**** against each other, not knowing where to stand.

We are strangers in a stranger land.

I sit under this tree.
Life is slow,
and so
it should be,

in the face of nature's show.
I sit and listen closely—
I'm sure I can hear her grow.

So for her,
her age is not a number;
her rings are all that count,

as are the secrets kept within her,
of all she has seen below—
like those who have been kept waiting
by the loves that never show.

The old oak tree.
Regal, she stands watching all.
Beneath all is small.

Each day.
All I see—
a shadow.
For me,
you left
long ago.

Each day,
we share
the same space,
but there is no
trace
of you—
the person
I once knew.

Each day,
I long to
look deep
into your eyes.
But I know
all I will ever see
is black—
my reflection
staring back.

You don’t laugh anymore.

Well,

not like you did before.

Your lust like fire. Flames,
at my soul rip. Smoke, like love
through my fingers slip.