The galaxies were dark and cold 

without a single light, 

and in each one I was alone,

solemn through my plight. 


Without the sun, I had no means 

through which to tell the hour,

until I realized that the trick 

was to make the clocks run counter. 


I watched then as the many paths 

to follow did appear,

when suddenly you took my hand

and softly dried my tears. 


You presented to me “Exhibit A:”

a leather photo book; 

you pointed out the smiling cherubs, 

and I knew who was the crook. 


The realization sunk in deep, 

I pushed out of your grasp: 

I now saw that you came to me

to accuse, not to ask.


And so I fled your condemning gaze

to set the clocks back right, 

but something stopped me when I grasped 

it wasn’t you to fight. 


No, the culprit was not so far, 

nor strange or even foreign, 

but something still was out of sorts:

the answer lied therein. 


At the end of all those darkened trails 

lay  the sinner, sweet and small,

and in her taunting reflection I saw 

a child grown too tall. 


You knew her before 

she knew herself, prearranged; 

you lost control, but still you would

pretend that nothing’s changed. 


I know that the “good old days”

are a tale told by an idiot, full of fury;

I know that we both wish to live

not in a time, but in a memory. 


Is it possible to close my eyes 

and go back to our old ways?

Instead I’ll try and pick up 

all her remnants on the frays. 


So I let myself be locked away 

at the ripe age of nineteen, 

even though you and I both know 

my hands were always clean.


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