clocks are so last season, hun

you tuck your heart
under your sleeve,
under a wristwatch
from World War I–
the one passed down
generation after
generation after
generation.

you pretend love doesn't exist;
and even if it did, you're immune
to the power of emotion.
your impeccable knowledge says:
love is sundry chemicals in your brain,
it can't hurt you because it's imaginary

and you're so damn smart,
you didn't even need to look
sundry up in the dictionary&
you're so damn smart,
you didn't even need to look
at me to make me fall
             for you&fall
          in you&fall
         apart&fall
        off, down

Splat!

(that's the sound of my liver falling down a flight of escalators)

you wear your watch over your heart,
so when people ask you the time,
you can tell them it doesn't work,
because communication feels
awkward, and you'd rather count
the stars on the back of textbooks
(like me)
and you mock conspiracy theories
(like me)
and you think people are too assumptive
(like me)

but you have no time
for kissing silly boys
(like me)
because your wristwatch
has been stuck on 11:59
since the day i met you,
and you said we'll talk
about it tomorrow, but
oh, subtlety was in vogue
the day your watch broke;

That was near twelve nights ago,
and you still imagine the moon,
counting the stars and seconds
with your broken chronometer.
And you don't care about boys
(like me)
or writers
(like me)
or hopeless romantics
(like me, myself, and I)

But you don't understand
the shit you put me through.

you don't,
do you?
you don't.
do you?
you don't.
Do you
(like me)