Minutes Never Born

In the silence, the clock remains awake,
minutes slip away like breaths unspent,
loves unripened that linger here, in twilight shade.
The hands trace names that were never whispered,
promises dissolving in the lunar sheen,
each ticking sound, a letter left unsent.
The metal guards a map of ‘what ifs,’
memory bends where figures meet the quiet,
what could have been, an echo through the halls.
And when the morning breaks, the room exhales slow,
the memory of time remains, but never the love,
the clock records just moments of dreams unborn.