Time is not the issue, even if we count down our lives in
desperate heart beats, the ice that makes her heart so hard, refused to melt,
and so, to touch it, to hold it in my hands, leave me with frostbitten fingers,
no room for reason, a shell so impenetrable, every memory of what once was can
do nothing to reach where the heart beats beat.
Time does not make the heart grow fonder, nor makes the place
where it resides any less remote. It is what it is and there is no respite, no
mercy, no sense of reprieve.
And yet, I feel the beat even through the hard glazed
surface, even though I know it does not, and will never again, beat for me.
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