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.