The broken watch

around my

wrist

will never let me know

if infinity is over

or eternity

is dead.

It can’t tell me

if I’m late or early,

or count down the seconds

of my immortal life.

But it can hold

in its reflection

the memory

of an unopened Timex

box under a dimly lit

Christmas tree,

and the boy and the girl

who stood beside it,

waiting obliviously

for Time

to tear them apart.