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<title>Time looks up to the sky | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">Time looks up to the sky</h1>
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<p>I wish I’d kissed you when I had the chance.<br />Your face hovering there, so near to mine,<br />your mouth pursed—what word was it you pronounced?</p>
<p>When I think about you, <a href="howithappened.html">something in my pants</a><br />tightens, and my thoughts run, and I realize<br />I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.</p>
<p>I want that moment never to be past<br />like Keats’s lovers on the grecian urn:<br />his mouth pursed, her figure turned to pronounce</p>
<p>her hips in ways that are not feminist.<br />But time strolls mildly on, not glancing at my<br />wish to kiss you when I had the chance,</p>
<p>whispered like a <a href="about-the-author.html">beggar to a prince</a><br />outside his palace: time looks up to the sky,<br />purses his lips, and hears what I pronounce</p>
<p>but pays it little mind. If he would just<br />turn back, bend down, and follow my design,<br />I would have kissed you when I had the chance,<br />as your mouth pursed and you pronounced goodbye.</p>
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