revisiting

she came back, and just like the ink fails at the first attempt on a white sheet of paper she hesitated in the first steps of her return. and how she wanted to tell him that that was life: to nestle your arms around someone else's arms. she came back with a pair of scissors in one hand and a clock in the other. a quarter past twelve. she counted nine curls in her hair, then eight, then seven, then six. she had half a day to tell the world - to tell him - that she too wanted a garden like from here to there and randomly spread seeds ignoring the seasons and that she loved winter as much as he did. she counted five, then four, then three. she had a quarter less. a quarter of an hour that could have been a quarter of a minute, of a second, a quarter that could have belonged to them both. she counted two and then one. she came back and said: one day I'll stop measuring time in days and hours and minutes and seconds. a day will be forever. or as long as I want it to be.