The Clockwatcher
folder
Singers/Bands/Musicians › Good Charlotte
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,274
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Singers/Bands/Musicians › Good Charlotte
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,274
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Good Charlotte. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Clockwatcher
"Time here all but means nothing just shadows that move 'cross the wall..." Sarah Mclachlan, Time
The Clockwatcher
The idle hands of the clock atop my piano refuse to budge. This blatant obstinance infuriates me for I have little patience with time. The last gulp of warm, robust red wine fills my mouth like a virgin's blood. I've been eing ing like a vampire for the past three weeks without him.
Not a song has been tinkled with since i perched myself on the bench. My fingers drag across the keys, and each one groans at my degrading assault. Loose spirals of my ebony hair dangle and soothe the ivories...will you be at our door tonight?
I prepared for bed hours ago, but like every night without him I go awake into the midnight hour. Sometimes I play, sometimes i pray; other times i simply walk the gardens, cupping innocent pink roses in my slender pale hands, nuzzling briefly until the heady scent leaves me remarkably light.
Tonight there is no rain. Every single hopeful star is surfacing from the depths of the inky sky. His name I whisper to them, but there is no hope for me up there. I am so in love this time that the mere utter of the familiar word bruises my gossamer heart.
In the garden, among the flowers and vines i call my friends, he took me as his wife. He was unusually speechless that late spring afternoon, but his dark eyes spoke a thousand promises. To seal our commitment, he kissed me so fervently so even the May sun hid her blazing embarrassment behind a veil of clouds. Those bright days have grown oh so dark...the show must go on, he tells me from his cramped bus.
From the road, he sends poems scribbled into songs I envisioned to be about us. He sends plump strawberries dipped in luxurious dark chocolate. He sends chiffon and satin, dresses and gowns i presume he imagines touching while the bus, gliding the highway, rocks his restless body to sleep. I've only sent him reeling with my whispered suggestion of what will be the night we are finally reunited.
No solace comes from a windless night. There is nothing to stir the emotions. They stagnate, eventually turn on you, and devour you like a dark demonic force. His mouth can be brutal, spewing harsh words, but the pain of his apologetic kiss hurts worse.This is no ordinary love, he tells me. Our love even Shakespeare cannot put into words...I sigh at the revelation...then whisper, perhaps Poe could write it better?
I step onto the terrace overlooking the gardens. The moon and I exchange knowing glances. I am envious of the daisies' slumber below; my sleep is never so peaceful. Tortured dreams and secure memories entwine as I toss and admit...you have been gone far too long...
The persistent ring of the telephone finally lures me from my solitare. I sense him on the line; his voice does not fade from my ears. This late night call releases a single tear from its azure prison; I know he won't be returning to me tonight. The idle hands of the clock atop my piano refuse to budge. This blatant obstinance tires me for I have little
patience with time.
the end
The Clockwatcher
The idle hands of the clock atop my piano refuse to budge. This blatant obstinance infuriates me for I have little patience with time. The last gulp of warm, robust red wine fills my mouth like a virgin's blood. I've been eing ing like a vampire for the past three weeks without him.
Not a song has been tinkled with since i perched myself on the bench. My fingers drag across the keys, and each one groans at my degrading assault. Loose spirals of my ebony hair dangle and soothe the ivories...will you be at our door tonight?
I prepared for bed hours ago, but like every night without him I go awake into the midnight hour. Sometimes I play, sometimes i pray; other times i simply walk the gardens, cupping innocent pink roses in my slender pale hands, nuzzling briefly until the heady scent leaves me remarkably light.
Tonight there is no rain. Every single hopeful star is surfacing from the depths of the inky sky. His name I whisper to them, but there is no hope for me up there. I am so in love this time that the mere utter of the familiar word bruises my gossamer heart.
In the garden, among the flowers and vines i call my friends, he took me as his wife. He was unusually speechless that late spring afternoon, but his dark eyes spoke a thousand promises. To seal our commitment, he kissed me so fervently so even the May sun hid her blazing embarrassment behind a veil of clouds. Those bright days have grown oh so dark...the show must go on, he tells me from his cramped bus.
From the road, he sends poems scribbled into songs I envisioned to be about us. He sends plump strawberries dipped in luxurious dark chocolate. He sends chiffon and satin, dresses and gowns i presume he imagines touching while the bus, gliding the highway, rocks his restless body to sleep. I've only sent him reeling with my whispered suggestion of what will be the night we are finally reunited.
No solace comes from a windless night. There is nothing to stir the emotions. They stagnate, eventually turn on you, and devour you like a dark demonic force. His mouth can be brutal, spewing harsh words, but the pain of his apologetic kiss hurts worse.This is no ordinary love, he tells me. Our love even Shakespeare cannot put into words...I sigh at the revelation...then whisper, perhaps Poe could write it better?
I step onto the terrace overlooking the gardens. The moon and I exchange knowing glances. I am envious of the daisies' slumber below; my sleep is never so peaceful. Tortured dreams and secure memories entwine as I toss and admit...you have been gone far too long...
The persistent ring of the telephone finally lures me from my solitare. I sense him on the line; his voice does not fade from my ears. This late night call releases a single tear from its azure prison; I know he won't be returning to me tonight. The idle hands of the clock atop my piano refuse to budge. This blatant obstinance tires me for I have little
patience with time.
the end