Tuesday’s Drip

The faucet leaks—

a steady plip-plop marking time

beneath the floorboards, somewhere below.

The rhythm of a day that feels stretched thin.

Each drop falls slow, stubborn,

a single note in the quiet room.

It hangs—half caught in air,

a fragile pause before the next.

Tuesday moves by in measured beats,

a dripping metronome for hours

that slip through my fingers,

never quite arriving.