Monroe. Male. 20. Coffee, cigarettes, poetry, cats, welding, marijuana, physics and chemistry, indie films, getting lost in the stars, tattoos, floating in the ocean, long car rides, climbing trees, Frida Kahlo, bass drops, spontaneous camping, owls, gray hoodies, autumn nights, starry Decembers, duct tape and tools, sailboats and pirate ships, the forest, torn shoes, faded jeans, practically prepared, too many doctors visits, flannel shirts, wanderlust, late nights, darkness and light, shadows and infinity and people you Love.
Who are You?
“Tick,” says Tock.
I eat clocks.
They taste like all the time I wasted: tangy and bitter and gray, hard like stale bread.
The minute hand stabs my throat as it goes down. The gears taste like pennies and the numbers taste like the color of your eyes. The wood, plastic, glass taste like your skin.
I eat clocks to spend more time with you.
