Confined in my pen – and kept from
it.
The moments are fused, flow,
continuous, indivisible,
But can be separated with a thought,
unmeant or deliberate.
Then, each moment seems to grow,
Take on the length of the whole.
I take comfort in finally reaching the
end,
Knowing I will never live through it
again.
Each moment is an individual, physical
particle of pleasure.
Savor them each consciously, and they
may grow languid.
They come almost too quickly when you
string them together,
As you try desperately to save, to
recall them all,
But they cannot be brought back; to try
will just waste more of them.
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