I lay awake
‘neath cotton sheet
far late into the night,

or early morning,
if I check the clock,
its blood-red numbers
near pens and tissues,
a novel I haven’t finished,
and likely never will.
The coating of dust telling.

Telling of time.
Time past.
Time spent.
Time at a standstill.

Not present time,
nor times to come.
But of your time,
its abrupt and unexpected end

another night,
when it was far too late
to reset,
fall back,
or spring forward.

And too early
to imagine death.

Don’t believe them.

Time does not heal
all wounds.

Time doesn’t heal
any wounds at all.

 ©2019 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved


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