Prose

cold rays of sun don't hit your face as you run towards the ticking
 
(--ticking, tick tick tick tick that maddening sound--)
 
and then you embrace her, her beautiful pale skin and long locks of flaxen wheat hair and eyes too blue
 
(--tickticktick, she whispers and she's too perfect--)
 
you always compared her eyes to cornflowers, didn't you? or maybe the ocean's sweet smell, of brine and beach and dead fish and then again, that's too ironic because one drop of salt water and she will rust
 
(--we're very good at running out of time, you see--)
 
and her skin, her porcelain frost paper whitewhitewhite skin and it is fragile, you think as you press calloused fingers to it, and you could bruise it so be so gentle, so kind to the frail person she isn't
 
(--salt water burns your eyes and you're not crying, you don't think--)
 
she's not that fragile. she's made of metal, remember? tiny brass gears and golden wires and large copper bolts and silver welding marks and it all moves together so perfectly, doesn't it? she's so lovely and so yours, isn't she?
 
(--tea would stain her skin, its linen tablecloth folds and she looks like a tablecloth, even with her own vase of flowers--)
 
and you clutch her long, cold hands in yours, and you hold her boldly, now, and you are in love but you really aren't, and you know that because she's here now and you can only really love someone when they're not there, yes?
 
(--angel, angel, she's made of clockwork, nothing else--)
 
you tremble as you hold her, for contrast has turned to gray lines, scratches on the horizon and one day, she will leave you again and it will not be easy because you'll be in love again.
 
(--finite, that's what she's not. finite.--)