It passes quickly.

With every autumn deceased
since you last smelled youth,
you sit by your windowsill
counting Novembers
in hopes that they may slow
to some pedestrian speed.
On the sigh of a listless leaf,
you count the blended Tuesdays
and speculate how many
you've witnessed in your brief fantastic.

You compare this to lists incomplete,
replete with dream vacations
and renovations of the mind;
an adultery of spirit has occurred,
for in a whirlwind romance
with the real,
you lost the sense of touch,
that crooked index finger
grazing the cheek of what might have been.

Always at the window,
you notice a small bit of snow,
rock and stardust
kiss the forehead of the glass.
In the reflection,
you wipe away a wrinkle,
a tear,
a dashed intention:

time pours out your eyelids,
and you catch yourself
gathering it on the floor
like a kitten in a litter box
before taking a quick glance
through that patient window
to see if anyone from the outside
was looking in.



Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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