At the tic of the same clock whose face I recognize always as yours,

Is when you stand on my chest,

But even then you leave in an instant

About-faced to me,

And I am left there on a cold floor

With a vacant chest,


Feeling more lonely when you're present

And entertaining heartbreak when you leave

How do I shatter the clockwise pattern,

Where eyes and lines of vision cross,

Where you always win, a stacked house,

Where I'm always fallacious to the earth

An arc descending from lofty views.

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