Copper Drip

Under the sink, a drip taps time,

like slow rain against copper's shine.

Each drop a tiny soldier lost,

a quiet war of quiet cost.

Shiny pipes catch dimming light,

a restless gleam in the depth of night.

The droplets fall in patient rows,

a pulse beneath the cabinet’s closed doors.

I watch them count the seconds slip,

a small defeat in every drip.

Copper bleeds a steady thread,

a slow reminder of things unsaid.