When you and I parted we left such a mess, feelings scattered in hallways and shoes left on dance floors. I hope you always know; it broke my heart to break yours, and there are still time of the day my heart has dedicated to you, like the pages of a book—like my heart is the author and the title page bears your name. At twelve o'clock it's time to miss you, at 8am it's time to doubt it all, at sunset it's time to regret letting you go, at 5:21 when the sun rises it's time to realize we couldn't have worked. Each hour bears a different message, an off-center agenda, a new way to feel—but each hour always has you somehow, lurking in the memories, dancing across the room, drawing my heart to you. I know that's why we couldn't have worked: one minute I'd be in love with you and the next I'd want to throw it all away, but the mess we left still clutters up my life, and my heart still breaks at twelve o'clock.