A heart aching for touch, body tensed for release, eyes dying to drink in the sight of their lover, Sorrow has Time wrapped around her fingers.
Fingers, digging in the fabric of reality, dragging even the strongest to their knees. Fingers, lightly trailing across the spine of space, and sometimes brushing against the fantasies of the love lorn.
Lips etched as crescent moon, Sorrow crashing against the feet of Time, touching them, worshipping them, sometimes drowning them.
Time, like a silken sheet spread across the plane, barely making it from one moment to another, but never stopping, for Sorrow will come and that's the only thing that keeps him going.
The promise of a touch so light, it makes his heart flutter, and the anticipation of a thrust so hard, he can barely muffle his whorish moans.
Wrapped in lust, having to deal with the mundanity of life before she comes in like a tornado, wrenching his gut, making him gasp for air.
But until then, he stays. He stays in grey hairs and wrinkled hands. He grazes the fields of the dead and he lies by the border of the land, waiting. Waiting for the waves of Sorrow to crash and knock the comfort of hope out of his chest.