Clocks

Every human life is but a clock, hanging on an endless wall of timepieces almost identical yet each inherently individual. Every second that passes is yet another moment lost to the confines of memory. Whether sad, or happy, or simply occurring, every event must eventually become little more than an imprint on the face of a clock, forever a part of it yet never to be struck again. I do not know how long I have until the clock strikes midnight, and the evening of my soul becomes the dawn of the infinite morning to follow, but I know that I need to hold her until the final chimes beckon me to tomorrow. As seconds escape the face of my clock, I find it harder and harder to keep winding the clockwork each morning without something to wind my own. Each second should mark another moment filled with love or hope, but I fear mine are naught but desperation and loneliness. As the ticking of passing moments grows ever louder in my ears, I then fear that I am spending my time on nothing but the futile wishes that the movement of the hands will carry her into my arms. As it stands, I know not how many precious seconds I’ve spent have been devoted to her heart and soul, mind and body, with every atom within me silently screaming in agony. And I beg for my cosmic day to allow just an hour with her hand in mine, her burdens mine to bear, my pains eased by her mere presence between the chiming of the beginning and the end. If that is too much to ask, I shall plead for but a minute of her time and my own, a far cry from the fullness of an hour, yet still I would have her to hold for but a scant fraction of the short day. If yet again I desire more than I deserve, then I will be happy with a fragile second. Just a transient moment, a time so woefully small yet so poignantly grand where I can look into her eyes and see not malice, or fear, or disgust, but love. Even the briefest spark of affection will lend me the strength to return to my ponderous day, no longer incomplete.

But if I can make but one alteration to the path the hand of moments travels, all I would change is her. I would set the clock into motion, ticking away in perfect unison with hers, every passing moment on one reflected upon the other, intertwined as a perfect pattern upon the perfect day. And when that sweet yet fragile day finally ends as the green on the leaves does fade, I want to hear the melancholy chime of midnight striking as I gaze into her eyes, and then pass into the perpetual tomorrow beyond the face of the clock. And that endless day, we will eventually be together, the clockwork broken, but the moment everlasting.