I am more and more frustrated with each passing second.
As the hands move around the clock's face, I look for my lover's hands to move around mine.
But they avoid me like it is 12:30.
And whoever said chivalry is dead must've known my lover.
I sleep in its grave and gently try to wake it, until my soft nudges become violent shoves and I scream into its ear, begging it to get up and open a door.
It sleeps.
So I brush off the dirt and climb out of its shallow grave.
My blackened feet drag behind me until I find my lover.
I pull his hand into the cemetery and start to dance.
But his fingers slide through mine and his back faces me as he walks away.
So I dance alone.
When night falls I search the darkness for his warmth, but it is a cold, cold night.
I walk into a stranger who stops and lights up the sky.
He asks me where I'm walking to.
And I say to find my dead lover.
He looks at my feet and says they are dirty.
And before I can protest he scoops me up and takes me to a river to wash them.
And whoever said chivalry was dead must've never met my stranger.
I sleep in his arms and he never tries to wake me.
He waits for the sun to warm my skin and then protects me from its rays.
And when my lover finds us wrapped in each other's skin, he says nothing.
