This is an empty house
and the clocks hang still.
Do you see how time collects
on everything,
in layers and covers?
The doors are stiff
and quick to shut,
These windows are tinted
in darker shades of grey.
But if you say you'll still stay,
I won't ask why.
I won't ask why.
This is an empty house
and maybe the clocks need
the right hands to run.
We can see time collect on us,
in layers and covers.
If you say you'll still stay,
I won't ask why.
When I wrote this, I had hoped that it doesn’t hurt this much. But some of my poems come back to me in very haunting ways. This is one of those.