The hour hand

Every fucking moment feels like the second hand is relapsing
and it’s four twenty-six in the morning
the hour of depressive tidal pulls
The day won’t ever break and my candles are burning so low
I’m starting to sweat about it, check my pulse and
thud thud…. silence
Is this what it’s like to be dead and gone?
When your phone rings
hello?
but the line is dead, every
single
time.
And you’re left wondering if it was your pal the grim reaper
perhaps he lost his voice in a bout of tonsillitis
you’re playing some sort of guessing game with yourself
until you get a text and it’s all just a bunch of random letters
from an unknown number but signed with your initials
You’re still confused and the hour hand hasn’t moved in days
I’m cursing the use of analog time
‘cause it’s tricked me into thinking I’ve been banished and obliterated
it was just that
the batteries
were dead

3 thoughts on “The hour hand

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