She held her head in her hands, and between them was a giant twisted mess, like line run backwards on the reel. It was my job to untangle her, and it was all fires and droughts. Her heart lay at my workshop, all twisted clockwork gears running at different speeds, and my tinker nature drove me to put her to rights. Alas with every twist of the key she wound tighter and tighter. She became a molten pocketwatch, with each system slowly melting into the other. In the years following, they would ask me why I stayed just long enough to have my heart broken, and the answer will always be... "Because she's still here"
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
