Dusk approaches, leaving only the wings of
loving angels to warm a cold room. To warm
the backs of grieving bodies.
Time—falls into our laps. We created it.
It is in our control.
But fingertips slide past us, too soon.
Too fast.
And the clock in the cold room
ticks with our nervous feet
Tapping faster than a heart, beating—
our minds run in streams of tears,
carving scars into our soft cheeks.
Though we still have not yet learned why it happens,
we learn to accept it
never grasping it
Just awaiting white Christmas days and passionate souls
to whisk us into an abyss of fantasy and
facades
Because in times like these, distractions
are all we need.