Endless Stillness

The clock ticks loud,

a flat pulse on cracked paint walls.

Dust settles slow,

pages curl, forgotten.

Time drags itself across the floor,

unyielding, too heavy

to move, too quiet

for thoughts to gather.

Windows smudged with fingerprints,

blur the world outside,

where nothing breaks the stretch

of still air—no footsteps, no birds.

A book lies open,

words slack, unread.

And in this silence

I drown in the weight

of waiting,

a slow ache beneath skin.