A stopped clock sits blank,
hands still,
in the corner of the room.
The evening sun trickles in encasing each pane in the last light of the day. It illuminates a field of dirt and grime plagued by carcasses clinging by their wings to the hope of freedom in a time that never came.
My heart beats slow
It's all i hear.
In the moments between each dull beat, there's nothing but a blank space that echoes off the walls louder than I've ever known before.
You are here,
but you're not here.
If you were here time would resume. Hours would feel like minutes and minutes, mere seconds. We would run in circles chasing the hands of time desperately trying to yank them back with hopes of just one more moment.
But you're not here because hours seem like weeks, and weeks seem like months.
So i sit here.
Blank face
Hands still
In the middle of the room
where time moves around me.