clocks I can’t see

and all we do is fill the empty spaces as they come. doors and open mirrors. your bed, my grave, an outlet mall. playing house forever in between.

the words flood every room, bursting pipes and spoiling any hope for making sense. I stare at the ceiling with a will too weak to open the door or my eyes to anything other than this. the world feels further every breath and death bought with my apathy and taxes. feelings blur like vision underwater; clocks I can’t see ticking in the walls. no more meaning than the motion pictures. I wish I knew my lines.