Can you feel it?

Those minute movements

under the skin of your chest?

Every tick of the clock

becomes a suture,

tying together

the shattered remains of the

past.

Sealed with foreward

movement of the minutes.

Hours and hours

will pass to tuck away

the grim reminders

of hurt.

But it will only take

a small knife,

a picture,

a razor,

a whispered reminder

that stiches rarely hold

over a fast beating

heart.