My life is made up of seconds, but not the common kind. A second, by definition, is one out of sixty of a minute. To me, a second can consist of an afternoon in the garden or a night of talking openly with you. My life is made up of seconds, or better, in moments with you. For when I can remember the gentleness of your touch or the sweetness of your kiss, I know I am alive. When I cannot remember, I am merely in a coma of regret and guilt, because I know that I alone am to blame for you packing your bags, picking up the broken pieces of your heart, and leaving. My life is made up of seconds in a mental prison. The bars of guilt are impenetrable and my will for escaping is gone. I accept my fate, destiny, and my desolate future. This jail cell prevents me from moving on, which is perfect because it is not my desire to move on: my desire is you. My life is made up of seconds, minutes, hours, or maybe just time in general. I don’t even remember your name, but I remember how it tasted in my mouth: perfect, sweet, like kindergarten; where anyone was your friend and where innocence was normal. My life is made up of seconds, but who is to say my life is worth being counted. I accomplished nothing. I am nothing. I am simply a person who made a tragic mistake and drove the love of my life away. Who are you anyways? Yes, I know that I said I loved you, but you have changed. You are not the person I had fallen in love with. You don’t count your life in seconds, but in minutes . . . minutes are too long to find meaning. In a minute, you will get confused by simple actions. My life is made up of seconds, which pass by in hazes. Tick, Tick, Tick. It drives me crazy to know that I have outlived our love. Tick, Tick, Tick. My life is made up of seconds dowsed in pain. An iron fist of agony grasping at my heart, until it no longer beats, tick, tick . . . nothing. My life was made up of seconds, but now, I am no more.