The Clock That Knew My Name

The Clock That knew My Name

The clock ticked, but not with hours,

it ticked with moments I could not recall,

its hands crawling like insects,

its face warped with memory and doubt.

I pressed my ear to it,

hoping to hear something familiar,

and instead heard whispers,

my own voice repeating, hollow and strange.

Time twisted around it,

days looping like twisted ribbons,

and the seconds smelled of rust and regret,

each tick a small confession of what I feared.

I tried to smash it once,

but my hand passed through glass,

and I realized it had taken me already,

slowly, quietly, like a thief in the dark.

Now it sits on my table,

smiling with numbers I cannot read,

and I understand finally,

that some clocks do not tell time—they tell you.