Unmemorable.

These weeks are often forgettable.

The wind howls in the distance,
not loud enough to disrupt the
uncomfortable silence inside.
Even the hands of the clock are stifled,
when once they hurried like a
conductor late for a symphony.

I gulp down my coffee greedily,
exhausted, though I have no right to be.

Resting on the worn stairs by the kitchen,
I wonder if anyone else feels
the absence of life in their bones.
There is an insurmountable despair
in the chambers of my heart,
and try as I might to be grateful
that I'm not in a worse situation,
I can't quell the echoes of nothingness.

You dismiss me as being lonely.
It almost sounds like an accusation.
But I'm not lonely, I'm lifeless,
and you don't pause to notice the difference.

I'm leaving soon, but I always come back.
And sometimes, I wonder why I even bother.