Time is love's doom. Forgotten now, what happened in that private room. Forgotten now, even her face. Time is love's complete disgrace. Does this mean love isn't real? Since time is attached to every love we feel? Time lived between that kiss and the next. A phone is old; old, the sentiment in the text. Nothing we said has lasted. Love ate. And then we fasted. Our religion lasted until the last kiss. Inevitable, that time's love has come to this. Moments of love do not stick together. The private room of those moments are left behind. Time travels fast in the separate, desiring, mind. Look before and after, where is the love? To exist, it existed in that room---in what was. Do you remember? We waited. And met behind a closed door. That was our love. It had no public. And now it is no more.
