Everything dips and swoons in small circular motions. The crescent half-moons on your nails have risen to signal nightfall, and there is a velvety, comfortable kind of darkness, one that masks the distance between destination and ability.
I sit on the edge of the bed and count the creases in the sheets while you string together sentence after sentence. Entire symphonies race through the hands on the clock in a coupling of time and motion. And there was no recuredo, no recuredo, sombras de ti, no recuerdo. And what was will be, and what will be was no more.