numb; living in standby.
When you’re paralyzed but know you still exist through tingling bones, sparks down your spine, the grinding of a fork down your throat and a shaken, not stirred, heart.
You know you still exist, because time tells you so: the constant ticking of the clock reminding you that as every second passes, every memory tugs at your heartstrings, each one grinding to dust in what’s left of it. Swept under. Forgotten. Erased. Replaced. For
better or worse.
I wish I could wind us like a clock. Save us from this pit we’ve fallen in, that’s moved us from sky-high buildings to uneven stepping stones. I want to take one step closer; I want you to remember. My slow-ticking yet steadfast running heart pushed into the dangling hands on the face of yours, of what may be left of it. What’s a clock without working hands? What’s a heart without a steady pulse? Continuing to run and beat, but no longer telling time, like when we should again meet.
Let us dissolve into one another, into what we know still exists, with no need to smother. Time doesn’t heal to make you stronger and distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, when there’s one end that continues to wander. Let’s wander back to days when we we lived with what we’d naturally create, never something we’d have to fabricate. We’ll keep winding and turning, running and beating. I don’t know if this means a thing, but I know my heart’s had enough retreating and my lungs have grown weak from silently screaming.
Give me something, anything, across the eight-thousand feet that separates us to let me know this wasn’t nothing, that this isn’t nothing. We never fathomed anything worse than being nothing. Than being forgotten, replaced, erased. Nothing but memories left to trace. Let me retrace back to your fingers as they interlace with mine. I want to wind us like a clock. There’s still time. Let’s grind this venomous path to dust between the interlocking of our fingers, piece what’s left back to one. Back to when time slowed down for us at every tick…tock…reminding us of everything we’ve built and have yet to build. Back down the road we never thought to turn from, yet killed. Where we know everything still remains. Where we know everything remains still.
We’ll be fragile, still partially broken yet touching each other’s reflections as the sun makes way for our shadows. Wake me up again at six a.m. as you brush your fingers onto mine, sending shivers down my spine, to marvel at a sunrise we thought only existed in dreamtime, come alive. Intertwined silhouettes, supporting one another like limbs forming a pirouette. Like the hands of a clock. Around and around we’ll go, back to a time that shows we’ve always been enough, with no need to let go.
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