The clock stops at 6:40 pm local time.
I'm watching through the attic window as the hands stop. The moon's light reflects off ornate gray steel, stopped in precice alignment with faded roman numerals.
Curious, I stand and push up the glass, scan the street below for any signs of movement. Nothing. Nothing's moving.
Standstill.
Then the outline of a falling leaf catches my eye. Heaven only knows where it came from. I certainly don't. It isn't moving anymore, isn't falling as it's supposed to. As I realize what I'm seeing, I notice even more discrepances - things so odd my eyes skipped over them at first: A large brown moth halted in place, wings frozen on a downstroke. Several candles, wicks lit but not burning, not flickering, visible behind my neighbor's curtain.
As I stare at the world around me, eyes wide and definitely not heavy with sleep anymore, my heightened senses tingle. Heaviness travels, did you know? It's physics. Gravity. Something to do with lift, too, I think, chest heaving as invisible bands of iron tighten around my ribs.
Time to sleep...
Thud.
Outside the window, the clock hands turn.
6:41.
I wanted to try a more narrative style with my poems.
