The bathroom clock stopped at 11:37 a week and a half ago. Time, itself, stopped but the second hand on the three-dollar clock stubbornly continues to tick. Day in, and day out, bouncing back to 20 seconds to 11:38. Not moving forward, nor back, not shaping time in any way.
Tempting, to romanticize affairs. Say, for example: 11:37, the time that love died.
Love, however, did not die. Love, like the second hand, pulses painfully on. Not going forward, nor back, not shaping a future in any way. And so, we end.