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Eight Minutes MAG
I bought an ugly, cheap, worthless watch with a fake name brand from an ugly, cheap,
worthless vendor on a filthy New York City street.
I knew immediately it had some unexplainable authority over me.
And it took advantage.
It tortured me,
With every metal device of which it was formed,
Every link and hook and both hands turning.
It gave me eight minutes to practice as I waited for your arrival.
Words were clear and perfect in my mind,
A speech prepared, with the most perfect words.
As the second hand returned to its starting point after eight laps around, you appeared.
And as I lifted my jeweled wrist to touch you, my words slithered away.
I lost the conflict, the will to speak.
And I’ll never escape the fear of that second hand,
Or the effortless way you prevented my words.
My little clock still regrets, still remembers how long I waited to tell you
How Mom felt when you tempted her.
With a vision of color and brilliance
A vision of white, like a wedding dress,
And when you prevented something you saw so beautifully,
She was swallowed by black and digested.
And she hasn’t recovered yet.
But you’ll never know this.
Or that I can never, ever give my hand to someone to hold for fear they will
Prevent my vision or tempt me with something greater than I can expect,
But I trust myself. So I am selfish, I suppose.
And you were late.
And I never told you.
This slinky circle of cold steel froze my words.
But the most valuable possession I ever owned was that time,
A solid eight minutes of power and purpose and pride.