The last one is gone
and now it is so
silent in this place

I can hear sounds
from the nearby
houses, families
chattering and laughing,
dishes clinking together

But here
there is just the sound of


the scratch of
a blue pen traveling
across my notebook

wine cascading
into my glass

a sigh… a sneeze
punctuating the room,
and then the
silence returns

People say habit
makes time stall

but that isn’t true

The days blend into
one another seamlessly
with nothing more to
look back on
or run toward

There is just now,
a choreographed life


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