October 3, 2017
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Goes the pen bouncing in my hand
On the thin white paper beneath my still-warm cup.


How long has it been?
Can’t tell by the clock,
Cause I didn’t spare it a glance when I walked in.


Music plays in the background,
Where I sit
But the words haze together,
And the colors of coats around me,
Have long begun to blur


And I can’t feel anything-
Not the warmth of this coffee shop,
Or the cold of my hands,
Nothing at all except the time catching up with me,

And I’m not even there-
I’m not real,
And all I do is exist between moments and wait


My pen only works double time,
While my eyes do less than half,
Staring out the window,
As I wait

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