I think I’ve never wanted anyone more—but you’re already halfway across the ocean that you’ve so laboriously tried to beat down into submission. What’s left for me to do is to wait at the pier for the mast of my own Time to be erected. I enter a laughable attempt at embedding the contours of your vessel in the harbours of my mind, bitterly pining to sail past an exact replica after I’ve mastered the turbulence of my own voyage. Chronology has not been the kindest to me, yet it is the only thing that has curbed the erasure of possibility—allusions to my coveted Future—a dancing wisp of air giving the quivering needle in my compass a little meaning. Half a reason more to watch the bleeding horizon swallow you up with nothing but a smile and a parting wave, grander than the ones that crash at my feet.
All clocks will always point to you, the time of my life—my nascent abstraction of love.