the hour only comes into the house through the back door now.

is it bad that i am used to boredom?
i can sit here and be fine with it.
it feels a bit tiring, a bit useless.

i feel wasteful, but i have adjusted my watch.

today, her voice is setting my peace on fire.
i watch it curl up and burn. she talks into the phone.
she raises the volume of the fire when he says no.

i see the smoke.
she touches and tickles the ceiling.
she is rising but has nowhere to go.

the ceiling squirms.
the ceiling has never moved before.
the smoke insists.

come. 
come. 
come.

the smoke pleads in her slow way,
playful in grace at first but now
she is crying, angry at the rejection

of today's blankness. there is so much
boredom and she has never felt it like this before.
she walks into the bathroom and closes the door.

she looks into the mirror and fills the space.
she looks at herself and every bit looks the same.