The Music Box

Tick tick tock

It isn't a clock it's a music box

I should be accostomed to the waiting game

But...I guess I'm not

I'm past the days of dreaming of boys with corvettes

Driving with the wind in my face and the boom box blaring

But I still can't figure out what song would be playing

Maybe Paul Simon

No, I'm not that wistful

But I still chip

Where is he?

You know him

The one that has no face because his aura is blinding

Feathers tickle my nose and drift down into my palms

When I get restless I scatter them and I don't pick them up

I turn around and cup my ears

Expecting some sort of forgiveness for keeping me waiting

My clock is ticking

Shouting some sort of heavy mental song

" Stab your heart! Stab your heart!"

I don't

But I do

My hearts intact but I can't vouch for the rest of me

The End

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