Hickory, dickory, dock.
Time is not a clock.

This is what time is.

This.

Somewhere out there
is where,
of a day
someone will see
the last firefly.

Somewhere out there
is where,
of a day,
someone will drink
the last cup of tea.

One day
there will be only
one kiss left
and it is up to us
to make sure now
that it will be a good one
then
for whoever is blessed with it.

Somewhere out there
awaits the last
hello,
the last
goodbye,
the last
I love you.

Someone,
right now,
is sitting close
to where the last
grave will be dug
with a shovel that will
someday be hurled
across the firmament
as dust that
no one will ever see again
until it’s brought into carnation in another
galaxy where the word
shovel
is a different concept entirely.

Someday.

Someday.

Someday . . .

All of those things
are coming.
With a certainty
and a crash
and a bang.
Gonna happen.
Might even happen to one of you.

So.

Come to me my Mousie.
Come to me my soft one
in the evening air,
you of the hair I long to touch,
the lips I long to kiss,
the heart whose beat powers the moon
which can move the sea.
Sit with me
and watch the sun go
down for the only time
today.
There is only this moment for us,
only one bright day
that is this one
and I may not see you tomorrow.

I love you.

This is not the last “I love you”
but it is one of the best.
Because it real
and it is now
and it defines this moment in time.
Which has nothing to do with a clock.