My heartbeat ticks like a clock on most days the pounding of my chest reminds me I don't have much time left I start to wonder why being shaped like an hourglass is such a good thing. We are always running out of time. So much so that we don't even count when we reach a mile- in high school they train you to keep time but somehow you always end up running and running away from it. Other kids shamed you for not completing the mile fast enough- but your body thanked you for not pushing it so hard. There are days when my alarm wakes me up before the sound comes like my body somehow knows my time for sleep has ran out. Things are constantly running away from me- kind of like you. I try to slow down the hands to this clock but as yours wrap around my waist it only speeds things up for me because I no longer pay attention to the sound of my heartbeat. Yours is the only ticking I can hear on those days. I find myself using too many metaphors and not enough alliteration or sibilance- or any other methods of poetry for that matter. I am too busy organizing these thoughts too quickly so they do not run too fast away from me. My mind is something I'm always trying to catch- trying to keep these emotions in order and on cue so I don't run out of time with you. But somehow I end up losing it, all of it and I am on the brink of insanity again because how can you feel secure when you don't know how much time you are wasting I do not want to waste all this time with you. If I am just another hour on this clock of your life it will be the best **** hour you will ever encounter because the rest of mine are spent trying to place these emotions that have run out on me. Spent trying to learn how to keep time, how to keep them in mind how to not let them change who I am again. But see these emotions are not an alarm clock- they are a pop quiz an erupting volcano that has been dormant for years, a hurricane you knew was coming but you weren't sure when, an hour of detention that goes by so painfully slow you contemplate your entire life. These emotions don't come every other sunday- they don't become planted in the soil inside of me and sprout when I water them. They are the dust that collects under your bed from the particles of your skin- and you don't know they are there until you clean out the things you've been meaning to for a while. My life is all metaphor and not enough logistics. Not enough order and routine- the only thing keeping me is time and the dust has settled again. It had rested in the lining of my lungs and sits in the bridge of my nose- it won't be long until it collects and overflows and I am dealing with the consequences of not keeping this life in order, in detail, I made no room for cleanliness. There is no freedom inside of this mess, inside of this wristwatch that will not leave even when I try to cut it off. The ticking of the clock is all I hear- it aligns perfectly with the sound of my heartbeat. I fear it will stop ticking I fear I will stop feeling I fear this heart will stop beating. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.