Diana Popescu

        I am the hourglass 
        beneath the leaves:
              not broken,
              but buried.
My fragment does not tick here.
                It folds.
               It forgets.
            It breathes in,
        but never exhales.

             I am the Fragment.
             Fallen.
        Forgotten.
                Forever.
                Flickering.

   The clock has fallen.
Its face turned inward,
numbers smeared in
confusion crimson,
a kiss of pigment
perhaps left by someone
who meant to remember.

    I am the hourglass
    beneath the leaves:
       half-believed,
        half-buried.
   My sand does not fall.
              It waits.
         It waits. It waits.
      It waits… It waits…
     Forever in stillness.

                               I am the Sand.
                          Silent.
                      Suspended.
                           Shadowed.
                                    Sacred.
 
           The leaves above me
                 twist like secrets,
crackling with memory,
       brittle with time.
  They do not know
                        they are dying.
They think they are resting.

Torn between yesterday and never,
I linger in the mirror’s hush.
Memory shrinks like brittle leaves.
Everything fades, even the echo.