echoes | poetry | wattys2018

71

I couldn't ask
the clock to
turn his hands
back in the past,
a memory that
was ours,
a moment that
was only given
to us,
wasted, long
forgotten.
–what memory
is it?
the clock, asked.
my eyes lit up,
remembering
her eyes staring
at me.
–the day she said
her name.
i whispered

—the memories
left me