heartbeat

The clock is broken, it stopped ticking ten years ago, stopped counting how much time had passed. It is an old grandfather clock, wood of oak, and sculpted to perfection. It used to have gold accents that glinted in the light, but it is covered in dust now, forgotten in the corner of a basement. I think it used to be beautiful, I guess it still is. But it is a far cry from what it looked like so many years ago. Against the glass pane covering the clock face, the hands are frozen. They are eternally stuck at exactly 5:06. It’s a funny number I guess, but there isn’t really any symbolism. Life doesn’t work like stories do. It used to chime a beautiful melody, every quarter of an hour. I know it did. I remember. Do you? I think there was a time when we were the best of friends. It was a long time ago when I took your hand in mine. It was warm, my fingers were cold, and I melted, kind of, in a way. I think I fell in love then, with your smile, and your laugh. With the way you were always there for everyone but yourself. You hugged me. Do you remember? It was warm and bright and beautiful like you. I think I fell in love then, with you. Darling, I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I wish it could've been better. We were always together, but now we’re not. I'm sorry. I love you. The clock is still there. It's still covered in dust. It’s been ages since it was remembered. It’s still broken. But I’m still counting. But with every hollow tick, I feel myself slipping further and further into a kind of insanity that I cannot help but enjoy in a twisted, terrible sort of way and then suddenly – no slowly – ever so slowly it gets darker and darker and darker until I'm laughing and laughing and I cannot stop and I do not want to stop and everything is a beautiful wonderful twisting swirling clock and I know my time in running out yet I also know I'll never make it out and darling oh darling I love ... you.