My hour of you, my cursive thoughts, a pulpit beating under these ribs.
Dear Time, you swallowed us whole, swallowed us lovely, sharp as bones
I am still here, supple and driftwood, you lovely, you loved me
All these scentless descents.
I shake my glass, shake again, melted suffixes tinkling
Why is pain so much better than nothing?
Sure you are witty, but are you any less romantic?
I remember that day: it was cold and the coffee was tepid.
My thoughts of you fully indexed, ready to step into.