Conor J.

Wake

To this tick tock ticked off thing that sits on my wrist

I found you in between love and pain like a backwards Cupid 

I treasured you and your broken timepiece
Empty screws and bolts. They were spilt.

Like my blood on the stove, cauterized.

Filled with charcoal and damage
You are him
A gift given
A grain of sand I can’t let go of
I’ve lived 1000 hours just to see you turn
Broken, heartless, filled with fragments of glass I can’t find
Wrapped in a box, short term, what I had with you

Flying like my own, living on my own
Gravity changing the dials on its own

But

Differentiated between perfect and thievery

I don’t own you

I think it’s because I hate your name 

What you use it for
As you change as I do
The look you give me
Curling up onto my wrist
Happening all at once is

You

Are

you, your silver plated worn glass sunshine makes me remember times I couldn’t see anything

Totaled.

 My mother says I should renew you

Change you
I don’t think she understands the concept of presents
Of memories
Of connection with something that never was

I saw you for the first time in a wrist of a man 40 years of age, but still new
Impossible of how large his wrists could be
Unlike the ones that were slit

I never dreamed you would fall off like pieces  of hours

Gone

Time isn’t really something I cared about

I gave up knowing I couldn’t get enough of it. Get enough of my nails digging into my skin

Like Christmas, the smell of bourbon and mourning

But you are totaled, gone, and loved