The bellman toll the hour again,
low and iron-throated over the city aether.
Too late for visitors.
Too late for pride.

I tell myself I do not count the chimes-
that I am not so foolish as to measure
my grief in ringing metal and guttering candles.
Yet here I sit,
watching wax bow its head to flame.

The ink dried.
The vows were severed clean as silk.
And still my heart keeps time
as though nothing has been dismissed.

I wonder if you wake at this hour-
if some restless draft
slips beneath your door
and sounds like my name.

Look at the time.
See how it moves without mercy.
See how it refuses to carry us back
to the moment before we chose
to let it end.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 1st of Lleian, in the year 17 AC.