Caniche by Elvis


He has no attachment to time.  Time can get away from him all it likes, now.  There’s no smile to measure it against, watch it burn down; a quick wick in a cheap candle.  Tuesday afternoons are never-ending but he knows it’s four in the afternoon because she arrives and that it is five-thirty because she has left.  She has little orange locust leaves in her hair and she won’t notice them until she’s home and looking for them.  Because of this, it is Autumn.  He knows.  For him she measures the passage of time.  She’s always gone too soon.