The currents of time begin to coil,
Pulling me within its currents.
The days count down -
Ten days, nine days, eight
The thought in which I contemplate
In how many instances have I made her wait?
Is it not linear, this sense of becoming?
Am I not being but once per second
Do I exist past where my physicality
Persists?
Time is running out.
The sifting sands of the hourglass reduce
From the vast expanse of the hour hand
To but grains and pebbles of
A dimension I cannot mend,
One of which I can only spend,
With her, I wanted to
Of all the things with which
I imagine I'd be able to share with her
Time is but the only thing that
Disappears
It was meant to be wasted away with her.