The Heart is a Clock Without Hands

 

Aren’t we all of us

painting over our favorite

pictures with new ones,

even if they're less favorable

because life is in three

dimensions...if not four 

and there’s no chance

of preserving anything

other than to memorialize

the things we hold

most dear.

 

Take my hands.

Fresh layers of paint

keep being added so that

they now barely resemble

the hands that once

held yours and gave

love through

the oak shaped leaves

of my palms.

 

The hands that

grabbed the rungs

of the water tower

as I climbed up

intent to prove

I’d not compromise

my love by growing

old without you.

 

But alas, I climbed

back down,

too afraid to

end it all,

only to remain alive

in a perpetual state

of hours slipping

through hands

like memories

bleeding through

fresh paint.

9/17/22