Waiting.

I stand at one and you at fifty nine,
and the ticking is incessantly loud in my ears.
Each day has become a series of breathings,
twenty five moments of those, filled with tears.

One might think that falling to thirty
is the highpoint of the day,
except that one forgets that climbing to sixty
is an uphill climb all the way.

There is no pause at three or nine,
just a quick breath between the clicks;
an inhale of the lungs and a stride of the foot
and on I race pass the ticks.

I can begin to see you, like the sun on horizon,
when I reach the fifty mark,
and forget the lack of pause at three and nine
reach out to grasp you at twelve,
when the bell toll, again, breaks my heart. 

And then I'm sliding toward thirty.