The Clock on March Street

My love is stored on a broken timer, small ticks and clicks are heard as the numbers run down;

I can’t just choose the outcome, whether or not our end fills me with uncontrollable doubt.

We have tried to make us work, but all timers end, I don’t want to admit but we are better off as friends.

Reminders of you make me feel whole: like your perfect wit and that shit you called cologne.

The Roof of your car, forgettable classic rock blasting from the speakers as you fill my mind with your dreams.

The red marble notebook from when you ten, where you keep your stories, because it was more authentic than typing into the “laptop’s gleam”

Our trips to the shore, or that silly used book store, or when you would tell me “it's okay” and hold me close,

Going down March street, you’d point out the senseless signs, and name every single garden gnome.

These memories of you, of us are in my head and the ticking it starts to slow,

But my sanity will bring you pain, why should I not let you grow? Let you go?

You are so bright, a shining light in this dull world, but still no one can even see,

What you see in us is minuscule compared to what you can do, who you can be.

You, you don’t need March street. Stuck reading the senseless signs, when you should be writing for the big screen.

Holding you back, stuck in this mundane movie, constantly one shot away from the perfect scene.

That is not you, and without you how can I even start to be me,

Leave it behind, this one season town, and show the world you are truly free.

My friend, you are timeless, and one day I swear you will comprehend,

I am a just broken timer, keeping you in a stupid, little world of pretend.

Emma Weiss, Grade 11

Drama Major