History is war. I find myself in love with time. The struggle to keep her. Once upon a time I functioned perfectly. She was attracted to my stern shoulders that were reinforced with old fashioned cherry wood. The centerpiece of me could smell time every time she walks by. She notices my face and compliments my roman numerals. My brain ticks for her. Somehow even when she is away she spins my wheels. I need her. My destiny. But how can I become in sync with her. She loves my accuracy. She notices my biceps. She giggles how my right hand is thicker and shorter than my left hand. On her command I never hesitate to tell her the hour or the minute of the day. If I make a mistake then that would be against the laws of our nature. I need to be on point for her. If only I could point to her. But all she allows me to do is look. If she was my mirror I still could not see myself as it would be pointless to see time itself go backwards. Impossible. I only move forward for her. I tick for her. To go backwards would kill me and yet she will still move on without me. Then the war happens. Out of my hands like any other war. This time I survive. But this time I lost an arm... My left arm. Lost through the fire after the explosion. Somehow I survive to still tick for her. But now I can only tell the hour. My minutes are gone. Seconds I count but cannot tally. I can no longer keep count. So I count 3,600 seconds every hour for her to prove I'm still valuable. But am I? She demands to be more specific. Handicapped with inaccuracy. I am of no use to her.
Tick....
Tock....
Tick....
Tock....
She leaves me in isolation.
Lost in isolation.
I lost track of time.
I lost her.
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