I still recall this very room:
Outside the window falling leaves,
The sun gave up, the shadows loom,
The ticking heart, our love, it weaves.

These linens soft to touch, your hand
To touch is softer, semblance silk.
When time rotates its trickling sand
Its hands and dials no longer tick.

The candle’s stub withdraws the light,
The incense smoke vacates its swirl.
The spinning cogs all stop in fright;
Their rhythm gone, and gone they reel.

There is no ticking clock on this:
My love for you is timeless so.
Its memories oft come amiss;
An instant later on they go.