Not yet 45 minutes

by Jason Fobart


And the light fragrance of your perfume
lingers in the air
And it sparks my memory,
And rips at wounds that have yet to begin to heal.

While the clocks' small hand
makes its' third trip past the quarter hour since you left.
Though my mind's eye can still see
you next to me,
I look and you're not there.
And suddenly, my heart so warm,
brushed with a cold wind
is so alone.

copyright 1997-98 Jason Fobart

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