how precious is the movement of the clock in these moments,
if I only say the truth, its chasing my pulse,
the world has been long forgotten,
in this lust and want of being near to you,
but as I speak, the needle is hurrying up,
while contemplating into your eyes,
it comes to such a stop, that I am unable to look away,
but I am pulled back by the needle again,
Then when I take your hand for no reason and rest it with mine,
there's no other pleasure defined by this love,
this love, pouring out and dissolving into the air,
yes, I can breathe it,
its foggy out here now, such dense feelings of compassion,
neither the clock is visible, nor the needle,
like they have accepted to merge in this fog,
I can only feel your hand,
smooth slippery seamless surface,
and I release myself to this feeling,
but with just a faint cling of the cuttlery,
I come back to me and sip down the last few ounces of grief,
before I put your image back into my wallet,
and lay restless untill dawn.
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