The Hourglass

We left the words for later. While the act pooled in our extremities. Nervous fingers in their rheumatoid perdition. A broken violin clutching the last note of someone else's symphony.

We drew the outlines in chalk. Traced the bodies. Detectives with stone eyes. Holding down pages still not written. Novels without words. Mumbling into the ears of half-hearted lovers.

It's like we've always been dead. And it only took a glimpse of life to know.

All the words we've left for later.

That won't be heard.