I was praying that there was more to time than numbers on a clock. I was hoping that throwing coins into a well was not all that fate left us to tamper with and that maybe I could throw them into your mouth instead. How you've managed to shackle my feet with words alone, smooth as silk bindings, I will never understand. But those words are leaving red marks on my bones and I'm beginning to have the urge to gnaw at them. I have heard the clocks tick in disapproval at the hours we spend staring at the walls instead of at each other, and the sound of your foot bouncing against the floor is all to similar to the sounds of my fist tapping the wall, contemplating if it's worth putting a whole in it, around the size of the hole you put in my heart. The numbers on the clock is all that we have, so we have to make it count, so let's stop counting down the minutes until we're over and start counting down the seconds until we begin.
b.b.