Twenty-Seven Minutes Past the Hour

I didn’t realize
how much time had

I didn’t know.

It hurts my heart
to think of you sometimes,
wasting away.

I remember you.
The both of you.
Like it was yesterday.

As if it were.

As if I could
turn the page back,
close the whole damn book
from the front,
open it up again,
and discover you new.
I wish I could
start over.

I wish in so many ways
I could begin again.

Try again.

You are the last page
in a long story,
and I am not yet ready
to see

‘The End’

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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