by Amanda McLeod


Who decided time is something we should

measure? There seems little solace in knowing

that each tick of the clock is a moment

vanished, slipped through loose fingers curled around the

sofa arm. I am unable to grasp

that which is gone, to hold onto it as

I once held onto you. I wrap my fingers

tight around the padding, wondering

if doing so might still the tremors of

my failing grip. My tea sits undrunk, half

splashed into the saucer.



Amanda McLeod is an author and artist from Australia. Her work can be found in many places both in print and online, and she is the Managing Editor of Animal Heart Press. She’s always looking for silence and coffee. Connect on Twitter @AmandaMWrites or via





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