The second hand.
He constantly shows me around; within and beyond, To keep me ticking and moving, helping me surmount, With my consent, momentarily moving me so gently, Making me an inevitable routine as days passby swiftly. They adore me, miss me, curse me and more, as I sprint. But it's he who creates my moments during my earthly stint. They point at me so often to tell time each day, While avoiding my comrade's mundane efforts without a say. The traveller. The teller. The doer. The dove. He's the second hand and second hand is time. So if second hand is time, then so can be love. Oh! Feeling a true second hand love is no crime.