nothing touched

time,
like all things,

slowly runs out,

until even the moment,

seems lost and far away;

holding on,

the only way you

know how,

which is never quite

good enough,

but it gets you through

until tomorrow;

in the morning,

she comes alive,

her taste,

her smell,

filling your senses,

until there is nothing left;

but her;

then the sun

comes shining through,

announcing the beginning,

as you lie waiting for the end,

and you put her away,

buried deep with all the other

hidden treasures,

within this empty world,

where everything is held;

but nothing touched.

.

.