Baby, if my clock had scars, every waking tick would cut me open
again, tiny wounds stitched into the seconds, as if time itself learned
how to bruise me. Swore I was right, but please prove me wrong:
if I were to die too young, how long would you hold on and cry?
When these flies keep me up, circling like thoughts over the grave
where I bury my sleep. I toss around in that dirt of old mistakes;
I can’t find rest, but shame always finds its place beside me like a
shadow waiting for a sunset.
Our lives have begun, and all we'll borrow is a tomorrow; a loan
from the universe we can’t afford to miss. Yet even tomorrow
feels unguaranteed, a promise written in pencil on a clock face
already smudged. But here I stand again on the threshold of my
doom, listening to my heartbeat echo against all of the hours I
wasted being afraid.
I scroll past a million icons, but none of them belong to you—
none of them stop the time the way you do when you look at me.
Wiping regret smoke off my fingers, leaving marks like cigarette
burns— small, circular reminders that love has its own way of
branding you. Dreams, life, hope—they flicker under your eyes,
and God, I found dreams, life & hope in your beautiful eyes.
Baby, you met me as the sinner long before I remembered how
to be the believer— and still, somehow, you warmed the cold
future inside my chest. When our eyes met, time finally exhaled.
I reached for your hand— not knowing whether I was reaching
for comfort, or another collapse. Was it a lust for living again, or
the fear of falling into a love that could remake me?
Because the last time I loved, my clock cracked— its face carved
with scars from every hour love betrayed me. I can feel the hands
of time hesitate… as if they’re asking whether my heart can survive
another touch, rather than keeping in touch with my regrets.
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC
Baby, if my clock had scars, every waking tick would cut me open
again, tiny wounds stitched into the seconds, as if time itself learned
how to bruise me. Swore I was right, but please prove me wrong:
if I were to die too young, how long would you hold on and cry?
When these flies keep me up, circling like thoughts over the grave
where I bury my sleep. I toss around in that dirt of old mistakes;
I can’t find rest, but shame always finds its place beside me like a
shadow waiting for a sunset.
Our lives have begun, and all we'll borrow is a tomorrow; a loan
from the universe we can’t afford to miss. Yet even tomorrow
feels unguaranteed, a promise written in pencil on a clock face
already smudged. But here I stand again on the threshold of my
doom, listening to my heartbeat echo against all of the hours I
wasted being afraid.
I scroll past a million icons, but none of them belong to you—
none of them stop the time the way you do when you look at me.
Wiping regret smoke off my fingers, leaving marks like cigarette
burns— small, circular reminders that love has its own way of
branding you. Dreams, life, hope—they flicker under your eyes,
and God, I found dreams, life & hope in your beautiful eyes.
Baby, you met me as the sinner long before I remembered how
to be the believer— and still, somehow, you warmed the cold
future inside my chest. When our eyes met, time finally exhaled.
I reached for your hand— not knowing whether I was reaching
for comfort, or another collapse. Was it a lust for living again, or
the fear of falling into a love that could remake me?
Because the last time I loved, my clock cracked— its face carved
with scars from every hour love betrayed me. I can feel the hands
of time hesitate… as if they’re asking whether my heart can survive
another touch, rather than keeping in touch with my regrets.
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