to lose

there hasn't been a thing
for me to do
here, since you left
and I have been here,
since you left

and I have done
precisely this:

I

have piled precious moments
filled with longing,
ever longer
in a pile,
ever-growing
of these black and stubby seconds
that are scraped
from this clock's bloodless face,
by long and slow revolving sweep
of razor-perfect minute-hand

as time piles up,

where it will keep.