Time passes. Even when it seems impossible.
Even when each tick of the second hand aches
like the pulse of blood behind a bruise.
It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and
dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.
Time passes. Even when it seems impossible.
Even when each tick of the second hand aches
like the pulse of blood behind a bruise.
It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and
dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.