At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine before peeling off, like a slow band-aid.
At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee.
At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold. I finish your leftover half.
By 10:50 you are already breathless. I live for every time we overlap.
When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay. You never do.
By noon I put my hands on your shoulders and say, “Baby, you’re getting thin. All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat.”
At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone, 15,300 babies were born.
At 2:10 you don’t say a word, just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight.
At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere in the world at once: all 15,000 tons.
At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear. You do not inhale.
At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour. My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth, a shot of tequila sitting on the bar.
At 6:30 I hear the ticking. I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps.
By 7:35 I can see you in the distance, each second a tease until you drape over me. We always love quick and you never let me hold you. I dream of drinking you through a straw.
At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch.
At 9:45 we do not speak. Too many people have died since we last met.
At 10:50 we pray for a meteor, at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears.
11:55 is my favorite. We’re only apart for mere minutes.
But at midnight you’ll apologize sixty times because it will always be like this.
At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping. It’s exhausting loving someone who is constantly running away.
- Megan Falley, “What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand”
Today my dad was singing Christmas carols in the kitchen
- Dad: He knows how long you sleep in
- Dad: He knows that you've been baked
- Dad: He knows you spend all day online so you better hope your grandma gets you something nice because Santa is done with your shit