My+Interlude+to+the+End+of+Us

__My Interlude to the End of Us__ Twelve. My alarm goes off, Teenagers sleep even when they’re in love. My habitual nature is to check for the warmth of the necklace you gave me. As my fingers continue to trace my neck, my heart stops Until I find the small chain. I perform this ritual every morning And when I'm nervous And scared And sad. It’s always there. I don’t bother lathering on foundation and eyeliner; You think I'm still beautiful without it. My ears constantly listen for the doorbell. One. We go to our favorite lunch spot The drumming of your fingers on mine match with your watch, Tick, tick, tick. A smiling, blue-eyed girl walks by with her friend. For a moment her perfume clings to the air around us. I nervously attempt to smooth my gnarled hair, But you grab my hand once more, Always keeping your eyes glued to my own. Two. I watch you sing along to the radio in the car Your fingers make me laugh as you clash them against an imaginary drumset I think about the giggling middle school girls who sat in the booth behind us. They counted their boyfriends like numbers on a clock The girl with the ponytail won when she said twelve. I look back at you; I only need one. Three. You drop me off But nothing can take me from you. Your eyes remind me of the morning sky, right when a blue heaven stretches down upon the world. Your lopsided grin assures me that you’ll be back soon. I take your watch: a simple game to make sure you keep your promise. I linger in the driveway until I can’t see your car. Four. I’ve tried on every shirt and dress in my closet, Nothing fits right. The clock stares me down. Five. I sit near the door, My head constantly popping up from behind my window, waiting for the right car to flash by I check your watch--now, loosely hanging off my wrist, Even when the tiny hands are separated, They’re still together. I decide that’s us. Six. At dinner, I attempt to grab your hand But as one of your pretty friends walks by, You drop it. My hand recklessly collapses on the table. I watch the clock hands join for a mere moment Before separating once more. As I contemplate every mistake I've ever made, Your smile transfers from me to her. As we walk into the still night, You won't meet my gaze. I see your eyes sloppily follow a girl smoking by her car, She winks back. Seven. You’re silent. And when I attempt to sing to the radio and imitate your drum solo, You shut it off. As your phone lights up in the pitch-black darkness, I see a text from her. I desperately hold back tears. Eight. I stiffly walk to my porch, noticing that you trail slightly behind Now that it’s only me, I have your attention But I pull away. Your tongue remains still on your lips as they part into a glaring sneer. Your scrunched up face reminds me of a rusty spring from an antique clock, Just one second away from shooting out with fury. “It’s not you,” you begin to say. Your raspy voice sounds like a stuck gear, “Not you” I look at the now foreign watch on my wrist, “Not you” The little hand is stuck, Constantly ticking, over and over. My heart is twisting upon itself, sending sparks of pain up my chest. Eventually it stops. I stop Just like the neverending ticking hand. “It’s not you. It’s me” I allow one breath to escape into the heavy air, Look up and say “You’re right. It is you” The hand moves. Nine. I’m waiting for a text or a call or any type of sign that you’re sorry. But I know you not. Ten. I rip your stupid necklace off and throw it into the corner. Immediately, I regret it. I try to piece the small chain back together, but I can't fix it. Just like how I can’t fix us, how I can’t even fix me. Your watch is still ticking on my wrist; my heartbeat has grown accustomed to it as if a small piece of machinery now controls my entire being. Clocks control time, And without love, time had no meaning. I smash your watch against the ground, becoming the fool-hearted master of time entirely. If the clock does not move forward, then it won't be morning, and then none of this has to be real. Little pieces of glass dance through the air as I twist the clock hands back to twelve. Maybe I can change the past Maybe I can escape the folds of reality, and just go back. Eleven. Time is the most valued treasure among mankind. Only two entities can control it, Love and clocks. Man makes his foolish attempts to find immortality, Yet simply wastes more hours of his life. We tell ourselves that without clocks, time doesn't matter, But we’re so very wrong. It’s too late now; clocks have ingrained time into the depths of our minds. Our heart beats to time; our vocals and songs are created with time. The seconds are etched into my mind, every blink is three seconds, every breath of air is ten. Just as love entangles our mind with black-hearted memories, unable to be forgotten, permanently engraved into our heads. This cycle is neverending. We are like hands on a clock, Forever circling in a painful game. The clock continues to tick in my brain, Forever ticking and everlasting. I know my love for you is still endless too. I can't escape the clock. I can't escape you. Clocks lost their ability to control time long ago, Humans are now programmed to schedules and operate like machines. We lost our ability to control love too, So now it just haunts us. But like a machine, I keep moving. I, too, have a clock for a heart Which means I will never stop loving you. But even now, Teenagers still sleep when they're heartbroken. I set my alarm. Twelve.