It's a finite moment.
I long for the untouchable.
I remember, and cannot exhale again,
until the memory passes
and the pendulum swings back
the wooden heart hanging
from a once unpluckable string.
I couldn't even give you specifics
on what I miss, exactly.
I am not desiring particulars.
I simply desire particles
of what was.
What has been.
Oh, what has been!
What has been?
But nobody gives a damn.
It happened, and it's gone,
and I can't fight the clock now.
I wouldn't want to, if I could.
But I keep looking back
and wondering what might have been
and asking myself what I might become
if I forget you.
And then the pendulum swings again
and I see a wooden heart
with your name carved into one side,
fading slowly in the wind.