One

In a rented room
filled with words unsaid
my white clock died a death
slipping silently
from constant to defunct;
whilst time and time again reminds me
between synchronised second hands
there was a you and I
there was a we, an us;
now of time to come I care little
yet of lovers lost I still feel, still dream;
only yesterday there were two clocks
now a solitary nail points
to where my heart used to be.

© D. Archer May 2012

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