Howard Firkin
Forever doesn’t last much past the night.
It leaves its warm shape in the bed, the smell
of absence on the pillow in its stead.
It skips out at first light and no one grieves.
The hour comes when every clock is still,
when time itself has only time to kill.
It leaves its warm shape in the bed, the smell
of absence on the pillow in its stead.
It skips out at first light and no one grieves.
The hour comes when every clock is still,
when time itself has only time to kill.
