I imagine what passes in every hour glass. What grains of sand to count the moments, each one sounding as if they sigh. Each one falling, as if woven into some cloth of the stars. Their fire, their breath, the fabric of eons, although lone there in vast space. So far away, until the light itself glows cold. Touches each night, pale against an inky curtain. Through glass and pane, against my window. It is then I know you are there, yet but one heartbeat away.