The tiles on the wall never change,
I've counted them all over again.
The number remains the same.

They are white like the warm milk of a baby's bottle,
And as square as any boring old tile before.
Some are cracked like I. Some are whole.

The cracks stay the same, and the paint doesn't change.
They are just here to exist. Here to please the eye.

They serve no real purpose yet tonight and tomorrow
And every day before and after, they are my world.