I like clocks and how their slender arms gently,
hold my waist and keep me within boundaries.
And how silly is that numbers in my calendars
Let me decide how I should waste my breathes.
I do not know.
I may know a little about why their importance ceases to shrink
when you're around.
I've been covering my calendar with ductapes and black markers and my ignorance
To rebel against it, and dramatize the entire situation to make it seem like fate and everything else wasn't meant for us.
And that we want to fight against rationality and break its walls so we can build our little warm house together,
made up of my college dreams and your lost self and that big wild vision.
My tired fingers from writing about you is using all of its blood to hold on to time,
while trying to ignore its vanishing self, when they intertwine with yours.
They fight against your charismatic smirk sliding its way onto your cheeks
and sneakily into my pounding confidence.
Can I be honest?
I readily jumped into the pool of
endings
and limits
and finiteness
and "hope to see you some time next year?" when I jumped onto your side in the library.
I jumped and I haven't fallen yet, I admit,
but dang can I tell you I hate heights?
Well at least until I saw you watching the television so intently and slipping a laugh or two on something that wasn't even funny.
