I have cursed the clocks
a hundred thousand times
since her death,
and still
time won’t run backward.

I can’t recapture
the days that we had!

It’s just this slog forward
towards old age
and change,
away from the glory of love.

In time,
even the poet’s tears
grow silent.

The puddles
dry.

What was
absolutely is farther away.

And what is
definitely is what is.