where the writers are
the time in between

the door shuts, like the closing bracket on the time in between, the finality softened by the promise of tomorrow, and the warm touch of yesterday, like a lovers caress, minutes pass into hours, morning light bathes the city in hope, the staccato rap of heels against the sidewalk in counterpoint to the blare of horns, but the door remains closed, like an impenetrable wall, immune to hope, the precursor to despair, as the moments in between leak like tears between fingers gone cold