all time spent without him: on book sales and greetings and

wiping the dew from her face, still sultry in September, counting

calories, savoring each segment of her orange, good-byes,

imagining his hands, his mouth, his eyes on her,

swaying to music played as it captures her attention then fades,

building a moment with these words dedicated to him,

his intellect, his passion,

his desire for her as strong as hers for him,

the way he makes her feel when he looks at her,

touches her,

butterflies attend,

calling customers and heralding  the arrival of books

they will never come to collect,

trees dropping their leaves, the sun falling earlier now

her heart drumming, her anticipation building, and

yes, time elapsing, collapsing,

folding in on itself as it is merely a place-holder,

nothing more