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Eight minutes to Sunday
Folder:
LulaMaude Yet another pass, another asking of the time
Somehow, it matters
Though there is nothing she’s awaiting
And nothing waits for her
Still she asks, needing to know
For the seconds
The fleeting knowledge
Will stay, fading
Even as my repeated answer does
In the growing space between us
And she is gone
Leaving a moment’s peace
Upon my mind
Trailing pieces of her own
