Grandfather Clock

I blame four in the morning for the quality of this. D:
Still no on-call editor.

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Grandfather clock.

Springs and wires coiled tight.
Images of sun and moon.
I reach my hand out to touch your face
As the clock reads five thirty.

A standard time caught in limbo between light and dark
Nothing out of the ordinary.

Your hour hand beckons me forward
The minute hand slinks away
Pendulum betraying your motives as it swings out of time.

The daily task of balancing your weights comes around
And as I sew you back up, my hand mists on your surface
Then fades away almost instantly

Leaving me to wonder if I ever left a mark at all.