The Hollow Hours

The morning still happens—

coffee gurgling in the machine,

steam rising like an old habit

that forgot why it began.

The toothbrush moves in circles,

small, obedient,

as if scrubbing away silence.

The mirror offers a face

that once had places to be.

Keys rattle on the counter—

a ceremony without a god.

Even the clock seems weary

of its own ticking,

marking moments no one claims.

Outside, the street yawns open,

a road to nowhere new.

The same faces drift through

their practiced gestures—

smiles like scripts,

words without weight.

Somewhere between the first sip

and the final sigh of evening,

you realize:

the days kept going

after meaning left,

and all that’s left

is motion—

beautiful,

pointless,

endless.