The sun drifts through the window,
dust motes floating like thoughts half-formed.
Morning hums with routine, soft and slow,
coffee brews, the sky yawns,
waiting for me to step into its pace.

A clock ticks, each second
pulls the day forward—
busy, but not filled.
I move through it, a bit like a dreamer
on autopilot, watching the world
without quite being in it.

Conversations blur,
laughter echoes but doesn't stick,
emails come and go like the wind.
Lunch, then more work,
a few moments stolen for myself,
writing or scrolling, feeling
the weight of being here,
not quite anywhere else.

Then evening falls,
the sky's colors spilling like ink,
painting the world with quiet.
I sit in the transit bus,
no rushing,
letting time slip like water
through my fingers,
I miss the sunset
the starry night.

The projector hums,
a distant knockoff
starry sky unfolds
I let the lights flicker
as the music wraps around me,
Beach House playing  
But not in a Beach House—
their sound echoes
through my room,
the ocean I never see
rolling in waves of melody,
familiar and distant,
like a dream that never quite comes true.

The night ends,
a story without resolution,
just a pause
before tomorrow begins again.