He said he would love her to the end of time.

Said it when they sat cross-legged on his thread-bare Persian rug, clinking glasses of sauvignon blanc.

Said it when he cupped her breast in the shower and kissed her ardently, needfully.

Said it over morning coffee, as she stirred cream into the dark brew.

Said it in the park, holding hands while Monarch butterflies danced; cicadas sang.

Said it when winter winds crashed against the window, prickly with sleet and snow.

Said it so often, it became a mantra, “I will love you to the end of time.”

But, one morning he rolled over in the tangled sheets and said he loved her no more.

Clocks didn’t cease their ticking; church bells still rang out the hour.

It wasn’t the end of time, only the end of them.

A spin on mlmm’s time weaver “Times Up.”

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