There is still time to tell of this.

With time later to gather the paper and ink and envelopes and stamps, the formalities of the end. Because, in time, they must be gathered.

Not this time.

There will be time to study the darkness descending.

The beast will slink back to the gloom, watery eyes hungry for me, it’s gangrenous teeth awaiting my bones.

It will not have them yet. There is a scar of near miss.

The beast can wait; all paths lead to its lair.

It knows it has the luxury of time we do not.

Time for now will be measured by the taste of you on my tongue, the drift of a rose on your pebbled skin, by the wind and new flowers and rain, by bees hunting for dew, by arms outstretched gathering sun and sound and joy and the mystery of all that is and was.

Time will not be measured by sorrow.

Not now.

Not this time.

Time now is measured by being.