Fleeting
Stop, time.
if the hands were designed as mine
and when they touched twelve, ours intertwined,
if the tides did not push and pull
the drops of salt from out my skull,
if the sands were far from fine
so as to stay in these palms of mine,
if the skies were all there was
and blackness did not appear above
Stop, for it is you whom I love.
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