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AutoPilot
AutoPilot
When did I stop living? When did I start taking up space?
Where loving you is no different than getting up to wash my face.
The TV’s off, a head stares right back at me on the black screen.
The features meld together but still look sad and cold and mean.
Some freeloader I became with empty hangers on a rack.
No more escaping in guilty freedom; the hangers stare right back.
Everyone’s older, they have their problems and somewhere to be.
I watch as friends lose interest in big plans, and wild dreams, and me.
