A moment stretched is still a moment.
Curled into the afterglow we looked relaxed,
yet I felt your hands clawed in the fabric,
prepared to tear the seconds from an hour,
as if they might be worth more alone
than part of a whole.
A moment stretched is still a moment.
Curled into the afterglow we looked relaxed,
yet I felt your hands clawed in the fabric,
prepared to tear the seconds from an hour,
as if they might be worth more alone
than part of a whole.
Carol J Forrester 
“curled into the afterglow” …. and then as we read on, we realize only one is truly feeling an afterglow. Your words evoke an uneasiness in me the reader, a wariness….all that glitters is not gold indeed.
I wonder if it was really a waste of time… it sounds like ripping seconds apart in the wait
The rawness of libido and passion that clouds the intellect and blocks the heart is not always attractive.
Such an aching pain emanates here.
There is a deep sadness here and I wonder about the clawed hands.
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I found this poem intriguing. Oh the sting of love (or lust).
Nice description of the seconds being torn from an hour.
oooooooh. such creative play on words, Carol!
I like how you’ve taken the old saying and given it another meaning, Carol, and not a particularly pleasant one. There is a sense of warning in the way the opening line continues, cat-like, into ‘I felt your hands clawed in the fabric, / prepared to tear the seconds from an hour’.
This is stunning.