The Wristwatch

He sits, slumped in his armchair,
Appearing to sink into velvet quicksand.
He glances at his watch, then continues to stare
At the void which holds his gaze.
In anticipation, he checks his watch again,
Tracing the time passing over him.
Each time he looks, the same image greets him.
Unmoving, the broken watch tells its tale.
His heart, broken as his timepiece, ticks in its stead,
Prolonging the agony.
He waits for her word, her nod, her acceptance,
Consent and concurrence that his love is real.
He awaits her response with a hope as eternal
As the time embodied upon his wrist.
And so he sits, and waits, and checks his watch,
Always waiting for the moment that never comes.