The Measurement Of Time

How should I measure time? In the days since we met? Since a kiss? In the days, the years (—years; how can it be years?) since you left? There is a date in my diary. It says Anniversary. I’m not sure either of us ever held it to be true but it has to sit somewhere. There is another mark, a simple dot. A date which needs no name, for the silent terrors are always without name, in the night.

A mark and a mark and a count to them, between them. Inviting comparison. Somewhere one count ticks over the other, if we can believe one mark; if we can bare to look on the other.

I can but count how long since I stopped loving you—zero days; no hours. I hope somewhere you can see the Moon that is tonight hides from me, leaving me lonely for you (I remember another night’s Moon, a few days from now & years ago, the first light holding me once you were gone).

I miss you Pixie. I love you Jan.

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