Connection?
Note this was written on 12/19/05 for all of us Americans and on 19/12/05 for all of you other more intelligent people. I'd change it because day mounth year makes more sense, but it's kinda hard to change when everyone else doesn't.
I sit alone with her 'tis nine and half an hour,
Arm firmly around, fingers intertwined
like so many fibers in a rope, and equally strong.
Old Ben chimes the time someplace distant,
A different time than mine,
The time for me is now,
Time for me now is no more than a number,
A number given to tell me it cannot last forever,
A number given that says I must soon go,
A number which says that what I feel is real
as I watch the moments pass,
each one a single second of glory.
Suddenly a light shines from the hallway
like a warm amber glow of hurt.
My arm is thrown onto my own side of the seat,
The rope frays.
Breaks apart so fast that no numbers passed during,
The man who is half of her walks past,
to the 'fridge he walks, and exits without a word
the rope comes back together once more,
however doubt places a splice in the middle
he questions its true strength.
If a mere light can cut such a rope,
than this rope was not meant to last,
but rather to fall apart and look at itself,
every day lamenting on the other half,
as the other slides away...
DonConquistador 00:29, 20 January 2006 (UTC)