My universe is turning within a cosmic clock I’ve created of all the things I wish would happen. Seconds, minutes, hours go forward, stop, and then begin again. Someone once told me that my eyes are like planets; he neglected to say which ones. Maybe it didn’t matter, as long as gravity kept them in place.
Sometimes I think my lips are too small; how can they take the weight of all these kisses? How can they bend and smile after witnessing another soul’s supernova, after inhaling the essence of a crippling desire? I’ve noticed their hue changes at night; it becomes a darker shade of longing. I like them best just before we kiss.
How many seconds would you stand to look at me before you closed your eyes and paused your soul? What does this cosmic grain of time mean to you? We all press pause and twist our bodies into unfathomable elegance. We do it to forget, to prolong, and sometimes even question the surreal pragmatism of everything that’s clicking inside of us, signalling a function that feels too natural to ignore.
I am the sole puppeteer of this clock’s arms.