When the Clocks Melt

The clocks in our city began melting last Tuesday. At first, we thought it was the heat. Then our memories sloughed off like old paint, pooling in gutters and evaporating mid-sentence. I forgot my mother’s voice, then my name, then how to hold a fork. Strangers kissed in the street as if time couldn’t punish them. Maybe it couldn’t. We stopped working. We stopped aging. The sun rose and rose and never fell. Eventually, even the word “eventually" came undone. I think I loved someone once. I think we danced. Or maybe that’s just leftover time, dripping slowly through the cracks in my head. Where does the night go when the thunder strikes?