stroke of the clock

These days,
I more or less think of you
in the past tense.

Time is, was, will not be
my strong suit
but I get better
with every blow
life deals to my head.

Faint concussions rap out the days
and hours that widen between us,
the moments and weeks
ticking against my skull.

Now I can sit,
temporally adjusted,
my aching temples
removing me from
how close I really am to you.

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