Mine.

Step in for a moment,
The time it takes,
The multiple seconds
(Perhaps repeated,
If you’re feeling generous
Or hardy of fool)
For you to peruse
These simple lines,
Consume their syllables
(Consider a possible nascent treat,
Hypothesise a trap),
Are now forever . . .

Mine.

I have already stolen half
Of all your fleeing words,
Your hightailing, temporal traces,
Owning the footprints you have impressed
Upon the sod of this earthy reality.
Do not concern yourself,
It’s too late to turn back;
Resistance is futile.
I have purloined the finest,
Most slender sliver of your syntax’ life,
A part of you that is,
As of this very moment . . .

Mine.

So wave farewell,
As your faithless bon-mots moments
Fling themselves away.
They shall be secreted
With care, somewhere,
Whilst it’s infinitesimally improbable
That I should revisit
When my own chronic time
Logically makes earnest its escape
By sleight of these cosmic hands,
Exchanging your continuance for . . .

Mine.

Call it insurance.
Call me a thief.
Call me irresponsible.
When you’re ready
We can share the whine
Over wine, perhaps
At your paradisical place, or . . .

Mine?

If you smile a shade
At the dimming end,
Or in half-light right now
Grimace and curse . . . rue away,
For either way, I get an extra treat.
If you set a frown,
A lour, a glower
In motion, in pleasure’s stead,
It matters not.
For I have at hand
A very large iron
And your fevered furrowed future
Forehead is therefore foretold to be . . .

Mine.

All mine.