When the Clock

We Began in the Uncounted Hours

We didn’t tally the time—

only the glances that slowed it,

the heat between syllables in midnight hush.

You said my laugh felt like something you’d lost

and forgot you needed.

I said your gaze

taught silence how to sing.

We spent ourselves

in small immortalities:

fingers drawn like constellations,

coffee shared at the edge of dreams,

breath paused between almosts and always.

Each moment,

a coin dropped into a fountain

we dared not wish upon too loudly.

Then—

the turn.

The clock, that dusty accountant,

started counting backwards.

Suddenly,

we were aware of limits—

train departures, late meetings,

the sound of goodbye creeping into our morning smiles.

You asked if love had receipts,

if memories could earn interest.

I had no answer,

just the weight of your head on my chest,

measuring the debt of goodbye.

Still,

even now,

I would bankrupt the stars

for another reckless hour with you.

Because some wealth

can’t be held—

only lived,

loudly,

softly,

burning,

gone.