The clock stopped at 12.17 the time when she invited me to see her vision of scenes that she wanted me to be painted on but not in. But I wasn't OK with that and in that man way that's strong but says hold on I think you're wrong lets hug some I stood tall and then didn't and I begged. But she was strong ger than me and she knew where she wanted to be and that flesh muddle it was weak a pretend cuddle no relation of how were we week after week before our love curdled and at least for her the weakening began And is that what I am? A sour taste man? Spat out? To be spat out never swallowed never ingested and made to be the food that feeds the body of the one that if she so wanted could have eaten all of me? And so why bother with the thought that one day the one days past could once again be one day? As it cannot. And the cannot is the pain no matter what we see today and each day becomes day on day for lovers for ex lovers throw away.