in my house there’s a restroom
it has a toilet, a tub, a mirror, a sink
it has two perfectly fine lights
but I am enamored by how the light from my phone
bounces in then out of the sink

then that mirror, what a sight
whose hair is that, curled and untidy
whose brow is that, furrowed and staring
at what?
my head is cocked, I must be confused
and so I keep on staring

my gaze falls to the not dry sink
droplets of water arranged in a spiral
pointing towards the drain
they must’ve been placed there by
some maniacal artist
such a thirsty drain

though photons there bounce about
showing me myself
I think I’d rather
live a little? maybe I’ll just fade away
be swallowed by a drain, and sink
into void—this I’d rather

yet here I stay

tell me, gatsby—I know thee well—
what fate of ours do the stars foretell?
fantasy and reality—wherein do we lie,
thus deceived by passion’s sigh?

oh—but you’ve told me before,
what the world has in store
for those like us who live content
with fancied ideals set in cement

that cursed or blessèd day
when you faded far away
falling further in a pool
while i sat here on a stool

alone and by myself
sequestered on a shelf
stored for someone else to see
my wretched tale of misery