But time given to wishing for what can't be is not only spent, but wasted, and for all that we waste we shall be accountable.
I miss the floral scent of her hair, the perfume that barely masked the underlying truth of what she was. She was lost time. She smelled of dusty libraries and unwound clocks, salted sand and rain riding on the first rays of dawn. And lilac. When she held me to her, lilac was what I smelled first.
She was lost time. She smelled of dusty libraries and unwound clocks, salted sand and rain riding on the first rays of dawn.
