why is time so much harder to ****
when a collection of moments are brought to a standstill?
lie in bed and study the popcorn ceiling.
perforations of personality
erasing all semblance of meaning.

rain runs her languid fingers over my windowsill
leaving lingering fingerprints that smudge the glass.
a ******
tapping intermittently
waiting to be invited in.

"open up your window,"
every droplet whispers, "let me slip
into something more comfortable."
the rain has grown sick of the endless cycles
exasperated by precipitation and evaporation.

the fan spins in rhythm overhead.
the blades drone like a time-bomb
ticking down the moments i wasted
stumbling through vertigo horizons
fleeing endlessly without taking a single step.

i curse the rain and pull the shades.
i wish i was dead
and that's perfectly okay.
maybe tomorrow
i won't feel this way.