in the last minutes of the near-done day,
we tie knots in the strings of borrowed time.
if you'd asked me to fall over the edge
of your words i probably would have.
it's probably why you wouldn't ask.
you wait for our photograph to blur
a little, for a lazier focus, for
a little less exposure.
i wait for my crime to be caught, my
stolen minutes to be found, unfurled,
let loose into merciful forgetting.
we wait for the warm flush
of love to leave, to heave
another sigh, then bid goodbye.
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