Snow Clock
Under streetlights
In the silence of snow
I am back when my breath was last this loud
Electric
You tug at my t shirt with your left hand and your nails graze my skin
Our pupils dilate, distending out to greet each other in a grotesque bridge of wet, dripping, obsidian flesh
So I feel like a black hole
I am a focus as intense as a drug
A rip on the edge of an edgeless sky
And we are all consuming
And we are almost one.
Sometimes
I wish it wasn’t this way, where I am a clock-watcher, and I glance up to see the hands always aligned.
And so where are we without an endless pull?
Without 12:30?
Without a 12:01?
The clock is broken
Or time has stopped
And it is stale
Or I am stale
Or we are stale
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