Being Here, Alone

The geography of these rooms I know so well,

like the front or the back of my hands. The trace

of their lines, converging here in this early morning light,

as the clock prepares to burst its bimmel and daylight

cascades over the window's ledge. I love this,

 the taste of being here, alone, with not

a word said, while time buries itself further and further 

into the landscape, chalk full of poetry and quietness

that blends well with the precise talk of the clock –

its hands gesturing toward a sadness of sorts, the hours 

 tick, tick, ticking by, sounding like a requiem upon my heart.