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.