Waiting, dry,
Stale silence sticks to my throat,
Flows through my head,
And sits in my skull:
Softly hissing,
Whines shake along my jaw,
Trembling across my neck.

In my solitude,
I punctuate the hollow room with
Tapping of fingers,
Fidgeting for the folly
Of pointless chatter
But finding only the grease and grime,
Of long gone dates and dateless days.

The counter holds more stories, but we forgot them all.