The digital clock on my shelf
Makes no sound-
The ticking I hear then must be
From inside me,
Like time bombs ready to detonate
On the count of three.
People break promises
To break people,
But in the end
All that’s left
Is the flavour of regret
Like concentrated orange juice
On groggy Monday mornings.
The best feeling in the world
Is not being able to sleep in anticipation
Of the next day,
But I lay awake and desire nothing
But wanting to leave my sleepy little town
In search of the city that matches
The rhythm of my restless heart.