That isn't time on your hands
It's my blood all over your finger tips

If our lives weren't measured in numbers could we even say we had lived?

But the seasons would still change
Words would still seep into my veins

Like a river into the sea
Feeding me

Growing with hunger
Devouring

And I wonder if all the things
I could compare you to

Like the sun when it shines through the rain
Or a flower adorning a grave

Some how might prove
The love I would've gave to you

Now that we're nothing
I guess that means you could do anything

Not me

My time, so precious,
is slipping through my fingers
as permanently as the red on your palms will not wash off