Clock Hands

I sit and stare,
at the impassive face,
watching hands tick slowly,
feeling each second bitterly.

I feel the grief well,
sink its teeth in deep,
but it isn’t time yet,
and to grief beforehand?
More pain not needed.

But I sit, lost and drifting,
aware of still fresh moments
mingling with distant memory.

Even knowing how it ends,
knowing that it must end,
now, then, later, sooner,
makes it no easier.

So I wait patiently,
watching those hands move,
dreading the moment they stop.