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.
